The Goblin Monk
by gravity01
Summary: When one does wrong, one must do it thoroughly. 'Tis madness to halt midway in the monstrous! The extreme of crime has its deliriums of joy. EC. Hunchback of Notre Dame and PoTO.
1. The fly and the spider

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This story is based off of the novels by Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo (respectively). Sorry to all of you ALW or Disney fans!

Author's note: I am reposting this chapter because, apparently, when I posted it last night, I only included half the chapter. This one should be more complete. Thank you for reviewing.

* * *

"One more minute, Stevo!" Christine called out as she quickly fastened a string of beads to her garment.

"You're beautiful, my dear, as always," he said, coming behind her and gently resting his hands on her bare shoulders.

Christine looked at their combined reflections in the full-length mirror of the large, open dressing-room. She did look beautiful. Her dark hair was adorned with ribbons that would catch the light just-so when she turned and danced in the sunshine. On her colorful dress was accented with beads and her tiny wrists and ankles with bracelets that would jingle and glimmer with her spirited movements. Christine looked the epitome of free-spirited joy. A carefree wood nymph. A fairy--delicate and sensual--throwing social norms to the wind and moving freely with nature. A street dancer, an orphan, and a gypsy. Such was her life, and she was happy.

Looking behind her, she appraised her tall companion. It is unlikely that two more disparate individuals would ever stand together in the same mirror. Stefan Trouillefou was tall and muscular--a mammoth compared to the pixy in front of him. And yet, while she personified glory, his appearance mimicked the most wretched of individuals. His body, clad in the most meager and pitiful of rags, was covered from head to foot in ugly scars and open sores. A cripple, a leper, barely human, and a beggar.

And yet, he was none of those things. Here, in the Court of Miracles, looks were deceiving. The sores and gashes were painted on and the rags and bandages were temporary. In that sense, his costuming was as elaborate as Christine's. At the end of the day, the detailed makeup and costuming would be scraped away to reveal a reasonably handsome, middle aged, man. His crutches would be abandoned to reveal an able man. More than able--a cutthroat, ruthless and unwavering. And that is what he was: The King of the Truants, the Duke of Bohemia, and the only father Christine had ever known.

"Thank you, Stevo," she sighed, kissing the older man on the cheek, "I suppose I'm ready now. Shall we go?"

"Let's do it." he answered. Then, with a clap of his hands and a wordless gesture, he signaled the rest of the troop to move out. Old women, men with no legs, and sickly children. Together the blind, the crippled, and the decrepit made their way out of the dressing-room and into the alleys. Another day was about to begin.

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Where did the obsession come from? Had it always been there, sleeping, waiting to be brought to the surface? Or did _she _put it there? The witch--for that is what she is. Or a devil… or an angel. She has to be, for nothing had ever consumed his mind and soul so completely.

As if in a trance, his eyes fixed hard upon a great spider's web that spanned the width of the window. At that very moment, a bewildered fly sped toward the light coming from the window, only to become entrapped in the web. For a while he watched it, with an anguished fascination, as it struggled for freedom. Before long an enormous spider, having recognized the vibrations in her web, approached the helpless fly.

A short, mousy man had been waiting patiently in the room for the master to recognize him when, having followed the dark man's gaze to the window, also witnessed the hunt, but with a sense of compassion that the other man could not embrace.

"Poor fly," he muttered as he reached his calloused fingers up to save the wretched creature. Without warning, a cold, bony hand shot out from the darkness and fastened like iron around his wrist.

"Master Jacque," the dark man hissed, "let fate take its course."

Jacque struggled and pulled against the vice-like grip around his wrist but could not seem to break free. The taller man held fast, his glowing eyes never wavering from the tragic scene unfolding before him, completely unaware of the little man tugging, with all his might, to break free from the painful grip he kept on his offending arm.

_Poor fly! Moments ago she was flying, joyous… seeking freedom and light. She sped with fervor towards the fresh air… But let her come in contact with the fatal web and the spider springs forth to destroy her. Hideous spider! Poor predestined fly! Poor Erik! You are that fly. You flew happily toward learning, brightness, intelligence. You sought truth and understanding. You were happy. You were content. You ran toward that light, seeking entrance through that dazzling window. The world of light. Ah but you shall never know that world! Senseless man! You flung yourself headlong into that subtle spider's web she laid out for you and now you are caught, struggling with broken head and mangled wings while…_

Another thought occurred to him and he smiled wickedly. _Ah. But you are also the spider. Poor dancer! Poor Christine! Evil, hideous spider--she will not escape you. Be free, girl, and dance while you can. Soon you will be mine. _

"No, let the spider work it's will…" he whispered.

"I swear it!" the man cried out, his voice laced with pain, "I assure you that I will not touch it. But please, master, for pity's sake, release my arm! You have a hand like a pair of pincers!"

Erik glared down at him as if suddenly realizing he was not alone in the room. He released little man, putting as much distance between them as he could with a shove and a sound of disgust.

Again he grew silent, absorbed in his dark thoughts and impending madness. Jacque recalled him back into reality when he addressed him a second time.

"Come now, master, when will you aid me in making gold? I am impatient to succeed."

The dark man's eyebrow quirked, unseen behind his menacing black mask and hood. This was his purpose. The reason he lived, relatively undisturbed, in the sanctuary of the highest tower of Notre Dame. The reason he was, without question, the most powerful man in France--though few had heard his name and none had seen his face. Erik was a genius, a scientist, an alchemist… and a magician of sorts. He could create and explain that which others could not. The power, therein, was insurmountable. Always under cover of darkness, scholars, kings and popes alike sought to tap into his genius.

Barely turning to face the man, he flashed a bitter smile. "Are you? Let me remind you, sir, that what we are doing is not wholly innocent."

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Author's note: I don't know what possessed me to start this story. Actually I do have an idea: today is spent _three hours_ arguing over whether or not the E natural in the seventh measure of the second minuet of the Bach cello sonata in G was originally intended to be a natural and not a flat. No kidding. Three hours. Theory people are such nerds. Anyway, my brain is fried and I've found that writing as been mildly thereputic in that area. So, um, yea... please review and tell me if this is worth continuing. It'll be a little on the dark side and the rating may go up. If you think it's junk, I'll scrap it and focus my attentions on my other two stories. Let me know what you think. 


	2. Erik

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This story is based off of the novels by Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo (respectively). Sorry to all of you ALW or Disney fans!

A/N: I changed the first chapter considerably from the first time I posted it so, if you haven't seen it in a while, you might want to read it again. I got a bunch of reviews for the last chapter so I guess this story is a go. Thank you to everyone who commented! I hope you enjoy this chapter. There is a line in here that is so corny, so cliche that even I cringe when I read it. Know which one I'm talking about? Please review!

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Erik crumpled up another sheet of parchment in disgust. He had been working on another theory but had not been able to concentrate all morning. How could he when he knew that, in just a few short hours, in the heat of the afternoon, _she _would be out there?

Yes, the little dancer, whose image haunted his dreams and whose voice scorched an imprint onto his very soul.

She would be out there again, on the streets visible from his window, taunting all that is holy and good with her sensual movements so close to a house of God.

The priest swore as he felt his body reacting to the mere memory of her.

Before she appeared, Erik had thought himself above such base urges. As a young man, if some woman were to brush against him in the streets, he would find refuge in his books and science until the shameful sensations were no more. But now, after years of prayer, fasting, physical labor and the mortifications of the cloister, Erik thought he had mastered complete control over his mind and body and banished worldly desires forever.

He had thought wrong. _She _had made that perfectly clear.

Erik groaned. _Damn that woman!_ This was his only time to work.

Afternoons were useless as he spent the hours glaring at her as she danced down below.

Evenings were spent in much the same manner although, lately, Erik had given into the urge to follow her home or seek her out in other situations.

Night was torture. The wretched man spent the long hours of the night twisting and writhing on the cold floor of his cell (he had stopped sleeping in his bed weeks ago), tormented with her loveliness and thoughts of what he could never have.

The early morning was all he had left, the only time his mind was clear. _Until now. Agh! Does she have to steal the morning as well? _

Who would have thought that one of the greatest minds of all time would be mastered by a beautiful woman?

That is what made him originally wonder if the girl was truly a mere woman. Erik, who was as feared as he was respected; who solved humanity's greatest puzzles like child's play; who strove without ceasing to understand, to create, to conquer all matters of art, science, and life; who, had it not been for his cursed face, should have been an emperor rather than a monk. That his genius should be rendered useless by the distractions of a fifteen year-old girl was equally cruel and absurd.

So what could she be, then? When he first spotted the gypsy girl from his window nearly six months ago, he swore she must have been an angel. It only made sense, no creature that beautiful could be entirely human. And that voice! Her singing could never be described as anything less than divine.

But no creature, sent by the Almighty, would be responsible for the thoughts that this woman inspired in his virgin mind. Perhaps, then, she was not an angel of light but, rather, one sent from the flames by the Adversary to cause him to stumble. That would make sense as well--that the same being who stole his face would also steal his mind, only to complete the crime, later, by stealing his soul.

Erik looked down at his desk only to realize that, while his mind was busy wandering, his hand was busy sketching. It was _her_--it always was, as she was the only thing he could concentrate on for any length of time--looking back at him from the parchment. The gypsy's dark curls spilled down over her shoulder and her eyes, so brown they were nearly black, were large and innocent. _Ha! If that should not be a clue--_gypsy_ and _innocent_ should not be part of the same thought._

With a growl of disdain, he lifted the hated parchment from his desk to put with the others. He couldn't destroy them, though he wished he could. No, these sketches were part of _her_ and, try as he might, he could not find it in himself to burn them or throw them away. But he could not bear to look at them either, for the same reason. So he kept the drawings hidden in a drawer just as he kept the feelings hidden in his heart--ever present but, mercifully, away from all scrutiny, public or personal.

However, before he could unlock said drawer, a rapping at his door commanded his attention.

"Who is there?" he called, hastily shoving the incriminating drawing amidst the other books and parchments on his massive desk.

"It's only me, my friend," a gentle voice replied.

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_36 years earlier…_

_Father Mansart was just leaving the church after mass when his attention was drawn to a group of old women who had gathered in the vestibule, surrounding the bed upon which foundlings were exposed for public charity. _

_Occasionally an unwanted or orphaned child would be placed in the wooden bed and those who wished to take them did so. Beside the bed was a basin for alms that charitable people could give to so that whoever did take the child would have money to care for it._

_The practice was common enough and seldom attracted so much attention so the exceptional number of bystanders piqued the young priest's curiosity. Half-way hidden behind a statue, he listened in on the conversation._

"_What is to become of us, if that is how children are made now?"_

"_Don't be silly! That is not a child. It is… it's… a…"_

_At this point all the women simultaneously offered up their own descriptions…_

"_An outrage!"_

"_A corpse!"_

"_An abortion of a monkey!"_

"_An abomination!"_

"_A sin to look at!"_

_The assembly was temporarily silenced when the pitiful creature began to wail. The child's cries drew Father Mansart closer even as it drove the old women a step back. _

_If not for all the physical evidence to the contrary, the child could easily be mistaken for a Siren. Its unearthly cries were beautiful and horrible at the same time--a noise that was seductive and pleasing even as it drew forth images of every type of human suffering from the mind of the listener. _

"_Hold your tongue, little howler!" a lady shrieked, holding her ears while tears streaked down her cheeks. _

"_That… _thing_… is a beast. An animal! It is not Christian and should either be drowned in the river or burned in the fire!" cried another, accompanied by the encouraging murmurs by the rest of the crowd._

"_It would really be for the best. Just think of the poor nurses at the foundling asylum! What if it was brought to one of them to suckle? Goodness! I would rather nurse a vampire!"_

_She made a good point. The baby could not have been more than a week old, but it was surprising that it could have lived even this long. Its skin was thinly stretched over the skull, showing every pointed bone and blue vein as clearly as if the skin had decayed away entirely. There was no nose to speak of and the eyes were so sunken in that they appeared to be missing altogether. The only evidence that the baby was not blind was that, when a shadow was passed over the youngster's face, two glowing, candle-like eyes could be seen in the darkness. _

_Really, if not for its movements and cries, the child would appear, by all accounts, dead already. _

_It would be prohibitively difficult to find a woman willing to nurse the child._

"_Yes, it is clear this little thing is not from Heaven. What do you suppose this could mean?"_

"_Only great misfortunes! It is a sign, dear sisters, of plague and pestilence to come!"_

_Several women paled at this announcement and a few fainted. Finally, one of the more outspoken of the group took this time to speak her piece._

"_I suggest then, friends, that we take the little magician and burn him in the fires. That is the only way we can truly rid ourselves of whatever sin he represents."_

_As the other women nodded their approval, the young priest found that he could bear no more. _

_Father Mansart was an intimidating man even then, with a large brow and severe face. The crowd, therefore, parted easily for him as he silently made his way toward the wooden plank. _

_He observed the 'little magician' for a moment before stretching his hand out over him._

"_I adopt this child." he said with finality. Then he wrapped his cloak around the infant and carried it off, disappearing through the red door that separated the church from the cloister. _

_After the priest was out of sight, one of the women leaned to another and whispered, "You see, sister? I told you so-- that Monsieur Mansart is a sorcerer!"_

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Erik smiled slightly when he recognized the voice at the door.

"Ah, come in Father!" he said, welcoming the older priest into his chambers.

The priest considered his masked friend as he watched him work to produce a chair from under a mountain of books. Who knew that child he had rescued on impulse would have grown into the man standing before him?

As Erik adjusted his mask, he felt a pull at his heart. He had given him that mask. The memory filled him with bitterness as well as triumph.

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_After taking him from the foundling's bed, he had baptized the child himself, giving him the name of his own father, Erik. _

_That settled, he underwent the task of finding a wet nurse for the boy. And what a task that was! Every hospice and orphan asylum he tried crossed themselves and sent him away. Every woman he approached refused--in the form of screams and fainting--when viewing the unfortunate face of his tiny charge. _

_The young man, having been rejected over and over, fought discouragement and the ever-growing feeling of hopelessness, determined to save this child whom Fate had given to him. _

_Finally, desperation giving way to unorthodox creativity, he took it upon himself to fashion a mask for the boy. This mask, the first of many, was made of plain cloth and covered the child's whole face, from the top of his forehead to the top of his upper lip, leaving his mouth and jaw uncovered. _

_Mansart left the city, carrying the masked baby in his own arms, and reached the suburb where he, himself, had grown up. There he found a young woman who had just given birth. _

_He gave baby Erik into her care, telling her some stretched truth (which he appropriately confessed to later) about the child needing to maintain a secret identity and giving her an exorbitant amount of money (which he had just recently inherited upon his father's passing) in exchange for her promise never to remove the mask. _

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The old priest blinked back the tear forming in his eye and suddenly cleared his throat to get the younger man's attention.

"Erik, this matter is not completely recreational, I'm afraid. I have come because I have a matter I need to speak with you about."

"Oh?"

"People are… talking… there have been rumors…"

"When are there not?"

"There are rumors of a… phantom… a spectre. The choir boys call him the Goblin Monk."

"Silly rumors spread by insipid young choir boys."

"More than a few, my friend, have fled the church in terror after finding themselves alone with you."

"They'd flee from you to if you looked like me. Frankly, I'd be a little nervous myself to run into someone like me in a darkened cathedral!"

"You have been heard… erm…chanting things during mass. Your neighbor in the choir said he has noticed you muttering between phrases of the plainsong."

"Brother Philippe is an old man. He knows not what he hears."

"Perhaps. Where were you last week?"

"The cemetery… I told you that. I was… paying respects to some of my colleagues who died in the plague of 1466."

"Ah, that's right. Isn't it a very interesting coincidence that the house of Nicolas Flamel is just down the street from that cemetery?"

"Fascinating. What are you getting at?"

"Neighbors say that they saw you, through an air-hole, digging up and turning over the earth in the cellars there."

"And why ever would I do a thing like that?"

"Are you looking for the philosopher's stone?"

"Just what are you suggesting, Father?"

"You are suspected of sorcery, Erik."

This blunt statement sobered the masked man. "By whom?" he asked softly.

"No one of consequence, really. Rumors and gossip from superstitious old women, mostly."

"Ah. Rumors. Is there any proof?"

"Goodness, no! No man is more outspoken against dark arts and eastern magic than you, my friend."

"Then why are you here?" he grated, yellow eyes narrowed.

The old man sighed. "I'm worried about you, Erik."

The young scholar turned towards the wall, resting his head on his hand in weary contemplation, while the older priest idly shuffled through the mess of paper on his desk.

"I know you, Erik, I raised you and I love you like a son. You have nothing to fear from me… I'm not going to denounce you or soil your name… I am here solely out of concern for your well being. I can see that glint of obsession in your eye… it is growing and I want to help you control it. Tell me, child, what is troubling you?"

He turned over each parchment, examining the spidery handwriting as he continued, "Theories of light and energy… designs… Greek and Latin phrases written over and over again… formulas for… what is this… _gold_? Potions upon potions for all imaginable purposes. Madness! Erik, do you realize what you are immersing yourself in? You are in treacherous waters, my son."

Erik still did not respond. He gazed out the window, silently allowing Father Mansart to finish his lecture. The older man flipped through more of the incriminating parchment until his eyes rested upon a sketch of a young woman. His jaw dropped. This was most uncharacteristic of the Erik he knew.

"And what of this?" he said, holding up the drawing. Erik turned and, to his horror, realized what the priest had just found. He snatched the drawing away from him and clutched it in his trembling hand.

"That is nothing! If you've nothing further, I must be alone now."

"Who is she?"

"She is nobody." he ground out, closing the door behind his longtime friend, "Just a _gypsy_."

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Father Mansart frowned as he began to make connections in his brain. In some respects, Erik was just like the thief who shouts "Stop thief!" in the streets. There was only one thing the masked priest was more outspoken against than sorcery, and that was gypsies.

This was a relatively new occurrence… Erik's horror for Bohemian women and gypsies had only seemed to emerge less than six months ago. However, in those six months he had already collected scores of official records giving evidence to cases of sorcery and witchcraft among gypsies and petitioned the bishop to forbid any Bohemian woman from dancing in public.

As he descended from the tower, he took a glance out the window and noticed the woman who was currently breaking that edict--the very same woman in the picture Erik had guarded so fiercely.

"Oh my friend, what madness is this?" he whispered.


	3. A bad day worsens

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This story is based off of the novels by Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo (respectively). Sorry to all of you ALW or Disney fans!

* * *

Pierre stumbled into the busy streets, straightening up his hastily donned clothing and squinting against the bright sunlight. 

He turned back towards the door that he had so recently been thrust away from and saw the old woman, still standing there, shaking a broom and shouting, "Stay out until you can pay your rent! I'm not running a charity here!"

"Bah!" he mumbled, kicking a stone into the gutter, "Rent… money… bills… that is all that woman thinks about. No appreciation for true art!"

He looked up and saw a baker carrying fresh loaves of bread.

"The nerve of that woman! Kicking a man out before he's even had his breakfast! Ho! You there!" he called, hailing the baker.

"Can I help you monsieur?"

"A loaf of bread, if you please."

The baker took a hot loaf from the tray and offered it to the man, keeping his other palm open expectantly. The poet reached into his pocket for a coin but it turned up empty.

"I seem to be a little short on change," he muttered sheepishly. The baker glared and snatched back the loaf, brushing past the would-be customer and continuing on his way without another word.

"What a fine day!" he shouted at nothing as he kicked at another stone. He continued kicking it down the street, grumbling to himself the entire way.

"Fine day, indeed! No money… no bed… no breakfast. And all before noon!"

At some point, his aimless stone kicking had led him into the midst of a large crowd, which he did not notice until his little toy had become lost amongst all the feet, baskets and walking sticks. He drew his attention away from his sulking long enough to look up and see what all the fuss was about.

There he was met with the vision of an angel. There, dancing with unearthly grace, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

"Who is this girl?" he asked one of the spectators

"Surely you jest, monsieur! Do you truly not know?"

"Obviously not," he said dryly.

"That is the gypsy girl, Christine. She is out here nearly every day. An angel, that one… such a lovely girl. Wait till you hear her sing!"

As if on cue, the young woman took a break from her spirited dancing and began to sing. Pierre was unfamiliar with the language she was singing, but the melody itself was pleasant enough that the text was inconsequential.

He was surprised to find that her voice had brought tears to his eyes even when the song breathed joy. For a moment, he was made to forget his own suffering, his threadbare coat and empty stomach; so wrapped up was he in the serenity and heedlessness of the girl's singing.

The moment was brief.

A voice from the crowd interrupted her, shouting curses and malediction that made the girl shiver. Her beautiful singing abruptly stopped.

Irritated, Pierre looked through the crowd to find the owner of those offensive shouts. His gaze was drawn to that of a tall man, dressed all in black in ecclesiastical robes, with the hood pulled up so that his face was enveloped in shadow.

Even still, Pierre couldn't help the feeling of familiarity.

His speech was unmistakable, though he could not, in his memory, put a face to the voice.

His posture also struck Pierre as unusual and familiar--most of the priests he knew were taught to keep their eyes low and walk in humility, and yet this man held himself with pride bordering on arrogance.

But where had he met this man before?

For a brief moment, the gypsy seemed put off by the dark man's attacks. She pushed out her lower lip in a pretty sort of pout that seemed habitual to her--it suited her well and Pierre founded it extremely endearing.

Then, as if suddenly renewed of energy, the girl twirled a little pirouette on her heal and maneuvered through the crowd, holding out her tambourine to collect money from the spectators.

When she passed by Pierre, he put his hand so dramatically into his pocket that she halted and waited for him. Truly in that moment, if Pierre had in his possession all the wealth in France, he would have given it to the pretty young woman.

Alas, such was not the case.

He swore under his breath when his hand met nothing more than the fabric inside his pocket. As he glanced into her big eyes, which looked up at him expectantly, he broke out into a violent perspiration.

Fortunately, he was saved from this potentially awkward situation when the dark priest took this time to shout more contemptuous words. The gypsy's brow furrowed and she made that pretty pout again--an unconscious action of both irritation and concentration. The poet-philosopher took advantage of the young girl's embarrassment to disappear into the crowd.

As he made his way back through the streets, he overheard a group of boys chattering.

"…you say it was a large wedding?"

"Yes, yes… plenty of cake and so many people they'd never notice if we snuck through…"

The conversation reminded him of his still-empty stomach and he dashed off after the children.

Unfortunately, the boys ran on faster legs than he did and the table was wiped clean before he arrived. The only things left were some meager crumbs and table decorations.

He kicked another rock. Today was a bad day, indeed.

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The day was unusually warm, but there was a light breeze which kept Christine comfortable while she danced. It is important to note, however, that Christine would have still danced and thoroughly enjoyed it even if she were uncomfortable. This is what she loved--music, dance, movement and all things lovely and pure.

And she was truly a vision. Here she was in her element, free as a butterfly as her hair blew in the wind and the little bells at her ankles tinkled when her feet touched the ground. With the ribbons in her hair catching the sunlight and her brown skin radiant, covered in the lightest sheen of perspiration, no one would doubt that she was something greater than a mere human.

It is no wonder why every male between seven and death looked at her longingly when she passed.

Christine, however, was mostly oblivious to their attentions. For a bohemian, she was surprisingly innocent. So absorbed was she in her own joyous reveries that she was either unaware or unconcerned with the looks of combined adoration and lust that followed her everywhere.

At some point during her performance she raised her gaze above the crowd and fixed upon the towers of Notre Dame. There she spotted, even from the great distance, a pair of glowing eyes glaring at her with icy hatred. She shuddered and stumbled in her movements but recovered quickly (being the talented actress that she was).

Those eyes. They were always there… ever present, always watching. She didn't know why she was so often compelled to look up there, but she felt a perverse thrill mixed with horror whenever she connected with them. Whoever was up there hated her, there was no doubt of it.

And yet, still she looked.

Perhaps it was curiosity. She heard rumors of a demon priest… a sorcerer… a goblin monk… that lived in the tower and hated gypsy women passionately. From what she had heard, it was this man who had been responsible for the edict banning the dancing in public (a ban that she constantly broke but that was rarely enforced… possibly due to the huge popularity of her act, even amongst the nobility). Maybe he was a monster, as everyone claimed. Perhaps he was just a lonely old man.

Still, why did he hate her so? And why, lately, had she sensed his burning yellow gaze even when she was not dancing?

Once again, she glanced up to the tower. To her shock and confusion, the eyes were gone.

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Erik sighed as Father Mansart left his room. For a few moments he stared at the closed door, lost in thought. Then he turned and sighed again, heading towards his desk. Perhaps he could get a little more work done before---

His thoughts were interrupted by the familiar sound of a tambourine. She was out there now. Though logic protested, his body dragged him to the window. There he stood, just as he had nearly every day for several months.

As of yet, the best he could come up to do was glare at her. Half his mind screamed at her to leave, to dance somewhere else--preferably back in Hell where the temptress had come from--and leave his sight and his mind. The other half of him simultaneously begged her to stay--or, better yet, to find her way up to his tower where he could take her into his arms keep her forever.

Torn, frustrated and confused… he simply glared. Day in and day out he fixed his gaze, almost unblinking, on her floating form, pouring all his hatred and love into his intense stare.

As the band played their lively music and the bells on her ankles chimed in time with her steps, Erik began to daydream. It was the same dream he was haunted with every night. Dreams of the fevered skin and unbound hair---

No more!

This was madness!

Soon she would begin to sing, this he knew. That song… so quaint but full of sweetness. Her voice indefinable and charming; something pure and sonorous, aerial… winged even.

When that happened he would be lost.

_There must be an end to this!_

The frenzied priest donned his hood and double checked the fastenings on his mask and flew like a demon down the stairs and out the door of the cathedral.

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When he reached the street and shoved his way through most of the imbecilic bystanders that stood gawking at his (yes _his_ because that is how he had come to think of her) little charmer, he realized that, in his haste, he hadn't begun to think of a plan.

Impulse told him to carry her away; however, reason worked to steer him away from his recklessness. A wise decision.

"Sacrilege! Profanation!" he called, surprising even himself with the utter distain in his voice. A sick thrill washed over him as she halted in her song.

However the thrill was short lived when he (curse his sensitive hearing!) heard her mutter under her breath to one of the musicians, "Ah! 'tis that villainous man!" and make that adorable pout he had become so fond of over the months.

_Villainous man? Is that how she thinks of me? Well… I suppose it is not far from the truth. Ah! But it is _her_ fault! I was not always this way… I was happy. Madness! This is because of her._

"Will you hold your tongue, you cricket of Hell!"

She paused again.

He heard one of the musicians whisper to her, "Keep going, Christine… pay no attention to the old man."

She gave the young musician a gentle smile and Erik felt a wave of jealousy that turned his stomach and made his head pound. This was not enough, he had become bolder in his contact with her. His proximity had only served to strengthen his fervor.

If he could not frighten her away, he would do the next best thing---keep her with him.

Yes, he had given in. The Devil, he determined, was stronger than he after all. If he could not beat this madness, he would gladly embrace it.

Perhaps if he forced her into his power he could break free of the power she held over him? If not… how lovely it would be to be wrong!

He swept through the crowd, instantly melting into the shadow of a high wall. It was settled, she would become his.

Tonight.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to ****Princesse d'or****, phasmatis lupus, and Elentir for reviewing. Hardly anyone read this last chapter... is it because the email thing is not working?**


	4. Rivals and rescues

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This story is based off of the novels by Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo (respectively). Sorry to all of you ALW or Disney fans!

* * *

If one were to ask Pierre why he chose to follow Christine around that evening, he would not be able to say. 

Maybe it was out of irritation. He was thoroughly annoyed at having run across town at the mention of food only to find it had already been eaten. In his foul mood he remembered the little dancer that had cheered him up that afternoon and thought to seek her out again.

Perhaps it was out of boredom. There was something thrilling about following a pretty woman in the streets without having the slightest clue as to where she is going. The idea of voluntarily giving up his freewill to another's fancy without her even suspecting it appealed to the philosopher. It was a delightful combination of fantastic independence and blind obedience, liberty and slavery. It pleased him greatly.

Or, perhaps, it was a matter of need. The poet was not so impractical that it did not occur to him that he had neither eaten all day, nor had no clue as to where he would sleep that night. On the contrary, both thoughts occupied his consciousness simultaneously for the majority of the afternoon and evening. He had a feeling that even this little gypsy was less destitute than he. She likely had food to eat and a bed to sleep in. What's more is that all the gypsies he knew of had kind and generous hearts. Perhaps, if he followed her… who knows? It was his best bet so far.

Regardless of the reason, Pierre followed her.

As he progressed he began to notice that the streets and alleyways were growing darker and more deserted each moment. He realized that, had he not been following another through these crooked twists and turns, he would be quite lost.

The curfew had sounded long ago and there was scarcely another soul on the street with them.

That did not, however, stop the girl from looking over her shoulder every few minutes. It seemed she could sense she was being followed.

After the third glance, Pierre slowed to follow her at a greater distance.

Unfortunately, in doing so, he eventually lost sight of her. He was about to turn around and give up when he heard a piercing scream.

-----------------------------------------------

Christine knew she was being followed. It was a feeling she had not been able to shake for weeks now. She felt as if someone… or _something_… was always watching her. In large crowds she could ignore it. However on nights like tonight, as she walked home alone in the dark, she sensed the presence strongly.

Her girlish imagination wanted to believe it was an angel she was sensing. Some creature, ever present and watching over her.

Her instinct, however, told her it was something far more sinister.

Again she looked over her shoulder. This time she noticed a man back into the shadows. He was dressed in threadbare clothing and looked vaguely familiar. She came to the conclusion that it must be one of the spectators she had seen while dancing earlier.

But she had a feeling that was not the explanation for the unnatural trepidation that was with her this night.

She was right.

Christine only had enough time to register a pair of glowing yellow eyes before she was taken up in the powerful arms of a monster intent on carrying her away.

-----------------------------------------------

Pierre hurried to the source of the cry and found a figure, clothed in black, with bony arms wrapped around the dancer and lifting her up to its shoulder like a rag-doll.

Puffing out his chest with all the bravado of an arrogant coward, the poet drew himself up and shouted, "Help! Police!"

His attempts at heroics did little more than irritate the kidnapper and, receiving an intimidating glare from some unnerving golden eyes, he backed down.

It's not that the philosopher turned and ran… he just didn't approach any further.

As the dark figure pushed past him, with the girl still in his monstrous arms, it struck Pierre hard enough in the head to knock him, unconscious, into the gutter.

-----------------------------------------------

If the situation had not been so terrifying, Christine might have rolled her eyes at the pitiful rescue attempt.

However her predicament was much too serious to waste time on such petty thoughts. The position her kidnapper held her in made fighting impossible. Her only available protest was to pound her delicate fists on the man's back--and act that did not so much as slow him down.

"Help me! Help!" she cried when she caught her breath.

Her attacker tightened his hold and quickened his pace.

Suddenly she heard another voice call out, "Halt! Unhand that woman!"

Within a moment, she had been released by her captor and swept into another pair of powerful arms.

She looked up to see the captain of the king's archers, covered from head to foot in gleaming armor, with sword in hand. He had pulled her up onto his horse.

When the shadow rushed toward them to regain his prey, it was instantly surrounded by fifteen more officers with swords drawn.

-----------------------------------------------

Christine gracefully raised herself up on the captain's saddle, touching his shoulders with both hands to steady herself. For a few breathless seconds she merely stared at him, entranced by his good looks and heroics. He was a young man, with sandy blond hair and a pointed mustache. To Christine he looked every bit the god on horseback.

"What is your name, monsieur?" she asked in an even sweeter tone than usual.

"Captain Raoul de Chagny, at your service, my beauty." the officer said gallantly.

The dancer blushed. "I… um… well that is… Thank you." she said before slipping away from his horse and disappearing into the darkness, faster than lightening.

Raoul swore slightly as he looked into the direction the girl had fled. He was clearly annoyed that the lovely young woman had vanished so quickly. He looked down at the bound prisoner who had frightened her away and kicked him swiftly in the head.

"What would you have us do now, Captain?" one of his officers asked.

He spared one more disgusted glance at the bat that had caused the swallow to flee. Then a wicked grin spread across his handsome face.

"I can think of a few ideas," he said, twisting his mustache.


	5. A rescue of a different sort

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This story is based off of the novels by Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo (respectively). Sorry to all of you ALW or Disney fans!

A/N: This is the second chapter I've posted this week. Make sure you didn't miss the last one!

* * *

A few hours after the struggle, the philosopher awoke feeling chilled and wet. It took a minute for him to orient himself before he could look around. Luckily, the light given off from a nearby fire provided just enough illumination for him to observe his surroundings. 

It was late and very cold. He had a terrible headache.

But why was he wet?

He looked around and groaned when he realized he had been sleeping in a gutter full of mud.

As disgusting as sleeping in a mud puddle was, it could only be worse in Paris. The mud in France smelled worse than in other countries. Something about the high concentration of certain salts and minerals. That much he remembered from his alchemy lessons.

Alchemy? Suddenly the word reminded him of Master Erik, the priest who had once been his teacher. Pierre briefly wondered if this had been the same man in the square today who had cursed at the gypsy dancer. The philosopher had a good mind… sort of… and he then wondered if the same man who had shouted maledictions in the streets might have been the same monster who attacked the girl and struck him in the head this evening. The three had much in common… but it was the yellow eyes that unnerved him the most. Erik had those same eyes.

_How strange would that be?_ He thought.

It did not take long, though, for him to set all his wonderings aside. As much as he was fond of pondering, he was much more fond of staying alive--a state he would not be able to enjoy much longer unless he could get out of these wet clothes and find some food and a warm place to sleep. The temperature was dropping rapidly and this was expected to be a particularly cold night.

Just then a group of boys--vagabonds and ruffians--came running through the alley, playing odd games and shouting loudly, unconcerned with the sleeping houses nearby.

They had managed to steal a soiled, straw bed from a sleeping homeless man and were looking forward to creating a bonfire with it. _Ah, the games of youth!_

To Pierre's horror, however, the children did not see his pathetic form (which still lay miserably in the gutter) and unceremoniously dumped the flaming bag of straw directly on top of him.

_Perfect! I'm going to be too warm now…_With a speed he did not know he was capable of, the poet leapt from the flames--thoroughly petrifying the youngsters--and ran haphazardly down the street.

Luckily for Pierre, the stinking mud had kept him damp enough to prevent the fire from reaching his skin. Unfortunately, it managed to singe his already pitiful clothing.

After five or six minutes of aimless sprinting, he slowed and allowed his racing heart to return to normal. It is then that a thought occurred to him. It seems that those children from whom he had just fled, were just as terrified by him and had run the opposite direction. It stands to reason that they would have left that straw bed behind. Now, either the fire had been put out by the mud, in which case he would now have a perfectly acceptable bed to sleep in tonight; or the fire remained, in which case there would be a fire that could warm and dry him. _A good plan. Return to where you came from._

Suddenly he realized, not for the first time that night, that he was totally lost.

_This day just gets worse and worse!_ he sulked, searching for another rock to kick. However, in the darkness his foot came contact not with a stone but with something much softer.

"AH!" a voice cried out.

He looked down, shocked to find that he had kicked a man--and a cripple at that! The man appeared to be legless, his lower torso resting in a bowl as his arms dragged him about like a wounded spider.

"_Alms"_ the man cried out. But, alas, Pierre did no understand him. The language he spoke was one the poet was unfamiliar with.

Without warning, another cripple approached from his other side. This one wrapped in bandages like a leper and walked on crudely fashioned crutches (though Pierre had to admit, the lame man was surely well muscled).

"_Please sir!" _the man pleaded, _"give me the means to buy bread!"_

Pierre was exasperated. Obviously these men wanted something, but he had no idea what. Their language was the same the dancer, Christine, had used in her song earlier that day. It was almost like Latin (which he spoke fluently) and yet so very unlike it in many ways.

He swore when a blind man appeared behind him.

"What the Deuce do you want?" he snapped.

"Your charity, kind sir," he said.

This man did speak Latin--though he did so through a think Hungarian accent--and Pierre was thrilled to have understood him.

"At last!" he replied in French, "Someone here speaks a Christian language!"

Then he turned to the blind man and (in Latin) responded, "Sir, I don't know who you think me to be that I have money to spare for Alms. I tell you the truth that I sold my last shirt last week!"

With that he turned his back on the blind man and continued on his way. The blind man, however, only hastened his steps, keeping stride with the poet. Pierre turned to his left to see the legless man also closely following him. He then noticed the man on crutches flanking his other side. All three chanted and begged for food and money in their own languages.

Thoroughly startled by the change in events, Pierre took off running again, hoping to lose the beggars along the way. The man received yet another shock tonight when he saw the three running after him. The blind man ran. The cripple ran. The legless man ran!

Pierre soon found himself amidst a swarm of wretches. Dozens of pitiful creatures climbed from gutters and cellars, limping along in the same direction as the unhappy poet.

Hoping to abandon the three followers in the confusion, he began to limp himself, blending in with the mob which urged him on by the flood of forward motion that comes from a large crowd going in the same direction.

Before long he reached the end of the street. There he was faced with an immense space, well lit, and bustling with activity unusual for this time of night.

He turned in a full circle, becoming more terrified by each passing moment, and realized that he had not blended in nearly as well as he thought. Here blind men were glaring at him with fire in their eyes and the lame and crippled stood at their full height and surrounded him menacingly.

"Where am I?" he breathed, more to himself than anyone else. Sinister laughs echoed through the crowd. The legless man from earlier approached him and patronizingly crowned him with the iron bowl that he had been dragging earlier.

"Where are you?" he mocked, "Why, my friend, you are in the Court of Miracles!"

Pierre looked around incredulously at the large dressing room where the most fantastic transformation was occurring. Here all the wretches of all religions and all nationalities, who begged for coins on street corners, cast aside their infirmities.

The beggars by day became bandits by night!

"What should we do with him?" asked a man.

"We can't have him running to his friends and telling them about us!" another agreed.

"Take him to the King!" and old woman shouted, accompanied by cheers of consensus.

As Pierre was dragged through the hall he marveled at the scenes taking place. On one side he saw a young boy taking lessons in epilepsy from an older man. Back towards the wooden tables and work benches he saw a group of women fighting over a child they had stolen--who huddled and wept in a corner. Dozens if not hundreds of others were carefully hanging aside their elaborate costumes and counting their earnings for the day. Others yet armed themselves with knives and ropes and set out for another type of work.

Truly, it put even the best ballets and opera houses to shame!

He didn't have much time to enjoy his surroundings, though, because it only took a few moments for him to reach the foot of the Throne. It was a huge chair, crudely made but impressive nonetheless. Pierre looked up slowly and gasped when he saw that Stevo Trouillefou, the King of the Truants, was none other than the crippled leper he had met earlier in the streets.

"Just perfect," he muttered, wondering if this day could get any worse.

It could.

"Who is this rogue?" the King demanded.

"Sir," the poet replied, looking down and bowing low with the most humble countenance, "My name is Pierre, I am but a philosopher, a poet, and a playwright. I offer you my services!"

The King laughed heartily. "Tell me," he asked, no less intimidating even with his amused expression, "when you look around, do you see people in need of poetry? Now… be honest boy, for your life depends on it! What are you doing here?"

Pierre started to panic. He stuttered a bit, trying to find words that would not get him killed.

"I… I have… have come to… erm… to join you!" he finally exclaimed, surprising himself with the brilliance of his answer.

"_You_ want to become a truant? What do you know of bohemia?"

_I know it's better than getting my head lopped off!_ The poet's eloquence took command of his tongue and he answered quickly, "Well, sir, I have always held a great respect for your people. The honest world has done little for me," here he gestured to his torn, muddy, and singe tunic, "and I am willing to cast it aside for a chance to join your world."

Stevo considered the man for a moment before speaking. "Do you have any skills, poet, beside that which you have already mentioned?"

"No, sir, but I am a quick learner and---"

"No deal!" the King interrupted. He stood and gestured to the crowd, "I say we hang him! Do you agree?"

Pierre paled and his eyes grew wide with fear. He wasn't the type of man who cried, but he was closer than he ever had been before.

The crowd nearly exploded with excitement. Clearly they were in need of some entertainment for the evening.

Before he knew what was happening, the poor man was roughly yanked up from his kneeling position and dragged up onto a rickety wooden chair with a noose about his neck.

The mob shouted and cheered as Stevo gave instructions to his guards. On the count of three, the first man would kick out the chair, another would pull at the condemned man's feet, and the last would push at his shoulders.

"One!" he shouted

"Please! I beg you to reconsider!" Pierre pleaded.

"Two!" the King yelled, ignoring the man's desperate petition.

"WAIT!" another voice shrieked above the crowd.

The King looked up, annoyed at having his fun disturbed. His expression softened, however, when he recognized the owner of that impassioned voice.

"Christine…" the crowd murmured reverently as they parted for the girl to pass through.

"What is it, Christine? What's the problem?" Stevo asked, grinning. Obviously his jolly mood had not been completely spoiled by the condemned man's temporary reprieve.

"You can't hang this man!" she stated in a tone that was firm but not angry.

"Why in the world not, my dear?"

"Because… he is… well… Because he is my husband!" she blurted out.

The crowd gasped and Stevo's eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between the pretty young woman and the disheveled poet.

"Your husband?" he asked.

"Um… sure." she said.

For a moment, the King's face grew red. Then he looked back at the hopeful girl and smiled affectionately. This was not her husband, he was sure of it. But, he knew Christine well. She was such a good girl and hated to see anyone harmed. He wondered how such a gentle creature could have been brought up amidst this troop.

He thought for a few seconds. Stevo was very fond of the young girl. On top of that, she made more money in a day of dancing than most others brought in in a week. He decided he could afford to sacrifice a little fun and indulge the child's fancy.

"Very well," he stated after a time, "I give him over to you then."

Then to the poet he said, "But you must learn to earn your keep. I grant you the privilege to live among us. Christine has saved you this night. Tomorrow, however, you will learn a trade from one of our elders."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Pierre gushed as Christine hurriedly pushed him through the still-gaping crowd.

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By the time the couple reached Christine's little flat, Pierre had recovered enough from his terror to regain some of his arrogance.

_This girl must be completely in love with me to have rescued me in such a way! _he thought smugly. Despite the overly rotten day, Pierre was in a fantastic mood. _Who would have thought such a day would have such an ending?_

The door had just barely closed when Pierre, emboldened by her passionate claims of matrimony, wrapped his arms around the dancer's tiny waist and pressed himself against her.

"Oh my darling!" he breathed into her hair. _How wonderful is it to be loved by such a beauty!_

Naturally, it came as a tremendous shock to the man when she pushed violently away from him.

"What are you doing?" she gasped.

_Ah! My nervous, blushing bride! How endearing. Don't be afraid, little flower._ "That should be obvious, my dear," he purred, "Did you not claim me as your husband?"

He pressed her waist once again and whispered seductively in her ear, "Am I not yours? Are you not mine?"

"No!" she shouted, incredulously. She pushed out of his grasp once again and drew up a knife from some unseen strap in her garment and held it menacingly to his throat.

At that moment, a black cat darted out from under the table and screeched. Pierre turned barely and saw her bristling and hissing, ready to attack the evil man who had approached her mistress. He looked back from the cat to the dancer and wondered which was more threatening.

Currently, the one holding the dagger won the competition.

"Forgive me!" he cried, holding his palms up in a placatory gesture. "I meant no harm. Please, lower your weapon. I swear not to touch you again without your consent!"

The girl and the cat both looked skeptical. For some reason, Pierre thought it was an appropriate time to change the subject. He was a practical man, full of compromises. Sure, the idea of bedding this pretty woman appealed to him… but a few minutes of sex was hardly worth fighting for. Besides, at the moment he had a more pressing need.

"Um… if you don't mind… could you at least find it in your heart to give me some supper?"

Christine's large, black eyes widened further. She truly had not expected that sort of response. She considered the man for a moment, that pretty little pout gracing her lips once again. Then, lowering the knife, she tilted her head back and laughed hard.

"I suppose that could be arranged," she said. She disappeared for a moment and returned with some bread, cheese, and a jug of ale.

Pierre greedily consumed the food she had placed in front of him. Apparently, his heated desire had redirected itself to appetite. Occasionally he looked up at the girl to see her staring, dreamy eyed, in to nothingness. She absently stroked the head of the sleek black cat that had nestled on her lap. Indeed the girl appeared to have completely forgotten his presence. _What a strange girl this is! I wonder what she's thinking about… I highly doubt the ceiling is _that_ interesting…_

Several times he called to her but she didn't respond, completely lost in her own world. After about a half hour of half-comfortable silence, the cat decided that Pierre wasn't such a bad man after all. She gracefully sprang from Christine's lap and rubbed against the legs of her husband. The movement was enough to get the gypsy's attention.

"She likes you," she mused.

"Mm. So it would appear. Does she have a name?"

"Yes…"

"Well… what is it?"

"Amica."

_Talkative one this is!_ "Amica… erm… 'friend'?" he said, remembering the Latin 'amicus'.

"Yes," she replied, "for that is what she is. Although she is really more of a sister to me."

"Interesting. And what of your name? Christine is not a gypsy name…"

"No, I suppose it's not," she murmured indifferently.

"How did you come across it then?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I was an orphan. Stevo gave me this name. In his youth he was in love with a woman but her parents kept them apart because he was a gypsy. I think her name was Christine. Then again, it may have just been some girl who was currently on his mind at the time--he has always been something of a ladies man. On the other hand, he could have just _liked_ the name. It's hard to tell with Stevo. He's a good man… just a little hard to predict."

"I see," he said, happy he finally got her to give something other than a monosyllabic answer.

Encouraged, he decided to risk a more delicate question.

"So you don't want me for a husband?"

"No."

"A lover?"

"No."

"A friend?"

She paused. "Perhaps."

The poet sighed. _Why won't you love me?_ "What must one be to stand a chance at pleasing a woman such as yourself?"

"A man."

Pierre was frustrated. "Well what do you think I am?" he nearly snapped.

"A man has a helmet on his head, a sword in his hand, and golden spurs on his heels."

"Ah. I see. So--without a horse there is no man."

The woman arched an eyebrow.

"Do you love anyone… as a lover, I mean?" he asked. _Maybe there is another man. That's right… it's not me. She just has someone else. _

"I think I do… I'm not sure."

"Well, why not? Why not me?" he whined.

She looked at him seriously. "I could never love a man who cannot protect me."

Pierre blushed, embarrassed the be reminded of his pathetic rescue attempt. He took the hint and decided not to press it further. _Ah well… there are plenty of pretty women out there…_

"Might I ask, then… if you do not want me, why did you claim me as your husband?"

"Should I have let you hang?" she asked with a hint of annoyance.

"Well, it is certainly more convenient for me that you didn't. But why?"

She sighed and fingered some invisible pattern in the table. "I suppose I felt I owed you slightly. You did try to help me in the alley today."

"Well, thank you, at any rate. Tell me, how did you manage to escape?"

Christine's face lit up and a gorgeous smile spread across her face. "What do you know of Raoul de Chagny?" she asked dreamily.

Pierre frowned slightly in thought. "I've heard the name. A viscount I believe. Yes, that's right. His brother is a count. Anyway, under his brother's advice he became an officer. I believe he's currently captain of the king's archers. Does that sound right?"

"It sounds _wonderful_," she sighed, no longer listening to Pierre.

The poet was slightly irked at having lost the girl's attention once again. No matter, though. He was the type of man who was perfectly content in hearing himself talk. He decided to continue the conversation with or without her.

"Well, I noticed that you have not yet asked my name. Never mind, I am not offended. Here, you shall have it. My name is Pierre. I am the son of a farmer. My father was hung by the Burgundians and my mother was disemboweled by the Picards. So, there I was, an orphan by the age of six. I don't know exactly how I managed alone for ten years, but I did. At sixteen I thought it time to establish a trade. That was a task, let me tell you! I tried to be a soldier; but I was not brave enough. I tried to be a monk; but I was not sufficiently devout (furthermore, I'm not much of a drinker)" he paused and laughed at his little joke before continuing, "I tried to become a woodcutter; but I was not strong enough. I did have a slight inclination towards becoming a school master; but that was quashed on account of the fact that I didn't know how to read. In short, I tried everything in succession and failed. I had almost resigned myself to the life of a vagabond when I met Master Erik."

"Erik?" the girl breathed. She hadn't been listening much to the man's ramblings but something about that name gave her shivers. _Erik._ It was an odd sense… she could not remember where she had heard that name before, but something about it made her uncomfortable.

"Ah yes, you've heard of him, then?" Pierre continued, "Master Erik is a most reverend priest, he serves in Notre-Dame. It is to him that I owe my life and knowledge. You see, he took an interest in me and became my teacher for a time. A brilliant man, really. A genius! He taught me Greek and Latin (the language of scholars) and even a little Hebrew (though I do not usually admit it, lest someone denounce me as a sorcerer). I learned to read and actively study literature. Later he taught me mathematics and science and alchemy. Really it is amazing that so much knowledge could be compressed into one man. Ah! But enough about him! Here I am, mademoiselle, at your service. I offer you all my skills, my wits, my science and my letters, ready to live with you in any way you see fit--chastely or joyously; husband and wife, or brother and sister, depending on your preference."

Christine nodded absently. However she smiled when she saw that Amica had taken up residence, contented in a ball, upon Pierre's knees. A thought occurred to her. _Perhaps this was not a waste after all…_

"Did you say you knew how to write?" she asked hopefully.

"Why yes! I do."

"Would you mind writing a letter for me?"

"Mademoiselle, I would write you a book if you commanded it of me. Of course I will write you a letter."

Christine gave her first genuine smile of this conversation. Her new friend just might be more useful than she thought. As Pierre fetched a pen and parchment, Christine daydreamed about her handsome captain.

* * *


	6. Compassion

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This story is based off of the novels by Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo (respectively). Sorry to all of you ALW or Disney fans!

Author's Note: Okay, I tried something a little different here. I'm kind of trying to go along with Erik's disorientation. If it is hard to follow, though, please please please let me know and I'll rework it right away. Sometimes things are different in my head than they are in real life. I guess I'm just wierd like that... Thanks for the reviews. You people are super.

* * *

Success! As Erik carried an unconscious Christine up to his tower he couldn't help but smile. Is it possible that anything could have gone more according to plan? 

At first she had fought him, but he had expected that. Besides, it is not like the little thing could do any damage to him. He chuckled to think of how desperately she pounded away at his back with her fists. He had barely felt it! That thought alone made him feel very masculine.

Eventually, though, the poor girl had worn herself out and fainted. Perfect! That made handling her just that much easier. Obviously, he couldn't have her screaming like one possessed when he entered Notre-Dame. That just wouldn't do at all… especially with the rumors about him already in place. He had intended, therefore, to stop in a darkened corner just before he reached the steps, in which he had placed the materials to bound and gag her.

However, his precautions appeared to be unnecessary and, of that, he was delighted. A small part of his consciousness wanted to pretend that she was accompanying him willingly.

It was a very small part.

No, this operation had another purpose. Tonight Erik planned to rid himself once and for all of this sickness that had possessed him.

All this time, the Devil had tempted him. His resistance only increased the temptation.

Well, tonight he would resist no longer.

He would give in, take what was being offered to him and, in doing so, free his mind and condemn his soul. Afterwards he would release the girl, now free of her hold over him. The witch and the priest would go their own separate ways and he would be cured. Or, he would die trying.

Either way, this madness must come to an end.

When he reached his cell, he placed the sleeping girl on his bed. Slowly she opened her great black eyes. The look she then gave him was one of utter confusion.

"Where am I?" she whispered

"Where you belong when you are not back home in the fires of Hell."

The witch winced at the severity in his voice. Erik saw this and was pleased. His glare intensified and she gulped.

"What do you want from me?"

"Only what is mine."

"And that is?"

"You."

His voice was harsh. The gypsy gasped and tried to back up on the bed but it was too late. Erik descended upon her, clutching her face in his hands, burying his fingers in her hair and kissed her roughly. She whimpered and he moaned. They both trembled--but for different reasons.

After a moment, he released his iron hold on her. He pulled away and looked into her eyes. Instead of fleeing, as he expected, she merely stared back at him. He took that moment to truly look on her, she was lovely, confused and disheveled. Erik knew he had never witnessed anything so captivating.

He wanted her. Needed her. Now.

The witch seemed to know this, for she smiled seductively at him, her half-lidded eyes veiled behind dark lashes. There was no going back now, Erik was sure of it. He was lost and enjoying every minute of it. The temptress raised her arms, beckoning him back down to her.

It was just as he felt her soft body begin to melt in his arms when he was struck with a sharp pain in his side.

--------------------------------------------

"Look here, Bernard! See what I've found!" a boy cried.

"Is it a monster?" asked one of his companions.

"No, Elroy, you imbecile, it's a body."

"It's disgusting!"

"It ought to be, it looks like its been dead for weeks!"

"How could it, though? We come through this alley every day and I haven't seen it here before just now."

Finally the boy called Bernard spoke up.

"Who will dare me to poke it?" he shouted, picking up a stick from the ground. He was met by cheers and encouragements on the part of his comrades.

Boldly he approached the gutter where the broken corpse lay. He gave it a hard jab between the ribs with the sharp end of his stick. The boys' laughter turned to shrieks, however, when the corpse moved slightly and groaned.

"A monster!" they cried, sprinting from the alley and into the crowded streets.

One of the boys ran headfirst into a sturdy gentleman with a large, round belly. The man chuckled has he grabbed the boy's arm and pulled him to his feet.

"Now, now. What's the hurry, boy?"

The boy pointed towards the alley and cried. "Its alive… it is the Goblin Monk, come to kill us all!"

The child's terrified declaration was just loud enough to alert some of the men and women in the group who, curious and eager for gossip, followed the direction of the boy's trembling finger.

--------------------------------------------

Erik groaned. He woke up just in time to see a group of boys running frightened into the street. He was spread partially on his stomach, propped just enough on his side that he did not suffocate. He tried, experimentally, to roll over and sit up. Almost immediately, sensations of pain shot through him. Everything hurt--his head, his stomach, his limbs--whatever misfortune that had fallen on him had been quite thorough.

What did happen anyway?

Even as he wondered this, flashes of memories came flooding back to him.

--------------------------------------------

Last night…

Erik waited in the shadows for her to finish her act. He knew he should leave and come back later, watching her was killing him. The sight of all those other lecherous eyes on _his_ Christine made him angry enough to do murder.

He held his place though, doing and saying nothing. Each step and each song strengthened his resolve.

Just after the curfew bell sounded, he saw her pack up her meager belongings and head home. Erik stayed just one step ahead of her, hiding under stairs, blending with the ever-darkening shadows, so that he could glimpse her unaware each time she passed.

It was an easy task, really. Erik already knew the way. He had followed her like this for weeks now. The priest was unsure why he continued to do it. At first, he was hoping to catch some imperfection about her with which to purge his idealized fantasies. However each night just left him more charmed than the last. She was like a drug--some strange compulsion that he was pressed to seek out each evening.

It wasn't just about lust... although there was a great deal of that. No, it was far more frustrating than that. Erik had mastered every subject known to man. When he encountered a problem, it consumed all his thoughts until it was solved. As a student, he had been the first one in class and the last to leave. By the age of sixteen he had already a better grasp on theology than most seasoned experts in the field. By eighteen, the same could be said of the other major areas of study. There was nothing this man could not do, nothing he could not understand.

Until her.

This little girl had pressed her way into his life. With all his genius, he could not figure out how to banish her from his mind.

She consumed his thoughts as had all his previous obsessions. This one was worse, though. The feelings she stirred in him… it was a puzzle that he could not figure out. She was the one subject he couldn't grasp… couldn't conquer.

He'd never come up against something like this. It intrigued him. Infuriated him. Tormented him.

How is it this little waif could be so completely oblivious? Did she realize what she did to him? Did she have any idea how much danger that placed her in?

Often times, he had followed her all the way home and spent the darkest hours of the night staring into the window of her tiny flat, watching her as she went about her nightly routine and then succumbed to a peaceful sleep. The sight of her sleeping infuriated him. How dare she rest so easily when he spent each night thrashing on the cold floor, trying to cool the fire in his blood? How dare she be so blissfully unaware of the suffering she caused him?

Lately, though, it seemed she was not so oblivious. She walked quicker than normal and occasionally risked a glance over her shoulder. She was a smart girl. Either that or she was blessed with the intuition possessed by all creatures who stand to be preyed upon by others--not unlike how the gazelle senses the lion. She is startled, afraid, even if she knows not why.

Consequently, Erik knew he could not waste any more time. As she passed through the darkest alley, Erik pounced on her.

What had gone wrong?

By all accounts, he should have been the one to triumph. She had struggled, but he was multiple times stronger than her. He also had the element of surprise and the advantage of perfect night vision. How did she manage to escape the assault of a much more powerful creature whom she could not even see?

Oh. That's right. The boy.

He had not acted quickly enough to cover her mouth and she had screamed. Erik had not expected the gendarmes to be so swift.

And why should he?

She was nothing to them. She is a gypsy, why should they care what fate befalls her? She is nothing.

Except to Erik. To Erik she is everything.

Perhaps it was just the frightened cry of a woman in distress that beckoned the chivalrous fools. After all, who could resist the call of heroism?

Well, Erik could. He was a man perfectly content to play the villain.

Regardless, they had come and had caught him completely by surprise. The captain had snatched his captive from his arms and Erik had instantly been surrounded by at least fifteen other officers.

Alone, Erik could have taken each of them. He was unusually strong for his thin frame and moved with speed and dexterity far superior to any of these idiots.

Even in the daylight he might have had an advantage with the lot of them. All he would have to do was remove his mask and hood and the officers would have run. Alas, here in the shadows Erik was relieved of his greatest weapon--his ugliness.

The fact remained, in the darkness he could not take them all on at once. Therefore, he was helpless as the pack closed in on him. They bound his arms and legs and held him still as he watched the agonizing scene between Christine and her _rescuer_ before she took off like a bird into the streets.

Which was worse--observing that handsome officer lay his hands on the girl, puffing himself up like a peacock and pressing her into his chest while she stared adoringly at him… or the brutal beating that followed.

Erik had to admit that both were excruciating. Still, pain he could endure. The image of that sweet girl blushing under the gaze of another would haunt him.

--------------------------------------------

The wounded priest was brought back into the present at the notice of another sharp pain, this one to the side of his head. He forced his aching muscles to cooperate long enough to look up..

Crowded before him in the street were hundreds of Parisians, shrieking in horror and jeering in his direction. Occasionally one would hurl a stone or brick at him, cracking ribs and opening up already closing wounds.

It is interesting to note, however, that while insults and projectiles hurled at his prostrate form, no spectator counted themselves brave enough to step within ten feet of the monster.

Time passed and, before he could move, nearly an hour had progressing in which he was mocked, lacerated, spat upon, and nearly stoned.

When some of the haze and disorientation cleared from his tentative consciousness, he reflexively reached for his mask.

To his horror, he touched his bare flesh.

He felt again. Blood. Grime. Sweat. Skin.

No mask.

No wonder the crowd was so large. No wonder they were so frightened, revolted… disgusted and angry.

_Of course, you idiot! How many other beaten men gather crowds this large to mock their misfortune. _

He mused that he must look especially repulsive at the moment--with his dead face purple and dripping and his yellow eyes wild with rage and pain.

"My mask…" he croaked, reaching his arm about vainly to try and locate his precious barrier.

The mob, seeing the monster's distress, only laughed harder.

"Heh! That will teach you to cast spells on us from the towers of Notre-Dame!"

"--and to keep us up all night with unholy music!"

"Hide your children, Madame! One look from this beast could drive them insane!"

Later Erik would panic about whether the masses had pieced together Erik the priest, Erik the sorcerer, the Goblin Monk, and the beaten man lying in the streets as one of the same. He would also wonder if he was, indeed, all of those things people claimed him to be or if he was something else entirely.

That is later, though.

This is now.

Now, he had more pressing issues to attend to.

"My mask!" he pleaded. Under other circumstances, he could easily intimidate any one of them with a glare. It is, however, difficult to be intimidating while lying in a puddle.

The crowd laughed harder.

"I know this monster! He made my wife give birth to a baby with two heads!" a man hurled a brick.

"And my cat give birth to a kitten with six paws!" an old crone added.

A cripple managed to dare a closer distance than the rest, reaching out and attempting to jab the wretch with his crutch.

"Eh? What do you say to that, creature? It's unholy I tell you!"

"My mask…" breathed the injured man, his hoarse voice lending no more than a whisper.

Apparently a whisper is all an angel needs.

At that moment, he saw the crowd give way. From the throng emerged a young girl, clad in colorful clothing and carrying a tambourine.

_An angel…_

The crowd began to murmur. "Christine… Christine…"

The famous gypsy could be none other.

Erik felt a wave of shame and panic rise up within him. She must recognize him. Of course she would want to wreak vengeance upon him as well. He struggled to turn away from her but his wounds would not allow it.

He watched warily as she timidly inched toward him. Closer… closer… until she had passed him entirely.

_Does she realize I am the same man who attempted to carry her off last night? Could she? It was dark… _

To his surprise and confusion, she returned just a moment later, familiar black mask in hand. His eyes sparkled with tears as she handed the shield down to him.

_She is an angel!_

At first he was so surprised that he made no move to take it from her. After a moment, she made her signature pout out of impatience--it was enough to make him smile if it didn't hurt so much.

As he moved to take the mask, his fingers brushed just slightly against hers. She snatched back her hand as if afraid of being bitten, but it was enough for the pitiful man. _I touched her! That little hand… she touched me… she showed me compassion. An angel… _my_ angel… I touched her skin and she did not die! _

Christine turned and made her way back through the crowd. Fortunately for the injured man, the sight of a girl so pure and charming hastening to the aid of so much misery and deformity was a touching spectacle, indeed. The spectators were so moved and convicted from witnessing such an act that the crowd had no choice but dissipate in shame.

Even without the obstacle of irate Parisians and even armed with his mask, it still took the battered priest hours to return to the safety of his tower.

He dragged himself up each step feeling confused and angry yet, oddly enough, encouraged. When he collapsed on his bed, he released all the bitter tears he was holding back.

He cried hard for so many reasons. He wept until his exhausted and broken body succumbed to sleep.

In his stupor he only barely registered the light tapping at his door.

* * *


	7. ANArKH

* * *

When Erik had missed the morning services, Father Mansart didn't think much of it. Likely he had gotten caught up in some sort of research and lost track of time. It didn't happen frequently--the man was very diligent--but it was known to happen on occasion. The old priest made a mental note to speak with him about it later in the day.

However, when he missed the afternoon services as well, he started to worry. In all the years he had known Erik, this had only happened once.

It had been nearly fifteen years ago when Erik was still a young clerk. Father Mansart had known that he had been working on some sort of theory in canonical theology, though if one were to ask him now what it was, he would not be able to say. In truth, he did not even understand it at the time. However, he did whatever he could to support his adoptive son in his various endeavors.

After noticing his empty place during not one, but _three_ morning prayer services, he had gone to check up on the boy, thinking perhaps he was ill.

Upon knocking, the young priest had opened the door just barely--just enough to tell his mentor that he was fine and would not miss any more services.

However, he did not attend the other services, neither did he show up for meals. Again, Father Mansart went to visit him and was met with the same response.

By the second day, his patience was wearing thin but he decided to give Erik a little more time. Surely hunger, if nothing else, would drive him from his solitude.

Alas, such had not been the case.

By the third day, he had had enough. Each time he had checked on him, his responses had become shorter and more agitated. When he approached Erik's door once again, he found that the young man did not even bother to answer at all.

As one with a some reasonable amount of authority within the monastery, Monsieur Mansart possessed a key that unlocked every door within Notre-Dame. After giving Erik one final chance to grant him entrance, he entered the room on his own.

What he had encountered was a shock that the old man had wished never to see again.

Papers were strewn about the cell and books and scrolls littered the floor. Writing and symbols lined the walls where he had marked him with his pen. Some words, to the priest's horror, were even scratched into the stone of the walls with what appeared (by the blood stains) to be Erik's own fingernails.

However, it was not the state of the room that had the greatest impact. Rather, it was the state of his young protégé.

Erik, who was normally immaculately groomed and composed, was haggard and disheveled. He had shed his robes and was merely dressed in a long tunic made of coarse cloth. His thin wisps of hair--too fine and sparse to even bother shaving--was wildly messy and stood on end in places where he had gripped it in frustration. His hands, curling and uncurling nervously at his sides, were stained with blood and ink.

Only his mask remained untouched.

The elder priest had known that Erik had not eaten in three days; but, by the looks of things, he had likely not slept either.

He appeared not to even register the intrusion, so absorbed was he in his meditation. The boy paced the length of the room, muttering incoherently in Latin and Greek, occasionally striking his fist or head against the stone wall in frustration, adding to the cuts and bruises already forming on his thin skin.

As he passed through a shadow, Mansart caught a look at his eyes. They were wild and unfocused. The sight was terrifying even to one who knew Erik well. He still did not respond to Mansart's persistent calls for attention. When he touched his shoulder, he just shook him off and kept his furious pacing.

Eventually the Father had to have him restrained so he would not hurt himself further. It took four burly monks to hold the boy still, so uncommonly strong was he.

The old priest sighed at the memory. It had taken him nearly two weeks to bring Erik back into reality and another four until he could be trusted to continue his studies with a clear head. Those were long and trying times. After that, he had made Erik promise never to let his obsessions get the better of him.

Strangely enough, his final thesis was genius and the bishop ordered him promoted to archdeacon. Unheard of at such a young age!

It had been an honor for Erik, but Mansart could care less of such things. What did matter to him was the safety and sanity of his friend.

Above all, right now he feared a relapse.

When Erik didn't answer to the tapping at his door, the elder man let himself in, once again afraid of what he would find.

He hardly expected this. Erik was lying, unconscious, on his mattress. His clothes were torn and filthy, the exposed patches of skin betrayed nasty cuts and bruises. His mask was still on, but Mansart could see dried blood that had trickled out from under it and onto his neck. Parts of his fingers and hands were swollen from small fractures and he could only imagine that his arms and legs were not much better. He seemed to have trouble breathing, each gasp coming out in short, ragged pants, probably a combined problem of the mask and the broken ribs he likely had.

"Oh my friend, what have you gotten yourself into?" he whispered.

He sat down beside Erik and began removing his robes to assess the damage, hoping it was nothing that required sending for a doctor. He had a feeling that whatever activities had led to the injured man's unfortunate state should best remain private for the time being.

As he peeled back the bloody mask, Erik moaned and roused slightly.

"Christine… Oh, my Christine…" he sobbed repeatedly.

"Who is it, Erik?" the old man asked, "Who is Christine?"

"An angel…"

Mansart was perplexed, the archdeacon was muttering nonsense.

"An angel, Erik?"

Suddenly, the beaten man's frantic yellow eyes snapped open. He sat up quickly and grabbed desperately to the collar of the other man's robes.

"You don't understand!" he cried, "She… she gave me… she… gave me my mask. She gave me my mask… after… after I tried… Oh Christine!" Erik broke into miserable sobbing and incoherent pleas until, once again, he succumbed to unconsciousness.

Father Mansart sighed. It would be easier to mend his wounds if he stayed asleep, at any rate.

He rose to his feet and began hunting through the office for medical supplies and some sort of draught to help him relax. He quickly located Erik's keys and began perusing the locked cabinets and drawers.

Though the occasion did not allow him time to dwell on it, the contents of one drawer in particular disturbed the old man greatly. Inside the locked drawer were hundreds of sketches of the same woman he had caught Erik drawing recently. _What would possess you to do all this? Why would you keep these pictures?_

Then a thought occurred to him. _Christine… I think I have found you, after all._

The priest gathered up the drawings and put them in his satchel so that he could discuss them with Erik at a later time.

When he reached the bottom of the drawer, he saw a strange word carved into the wood.

His head whipped around, suddenly realizing that it was the same word was also carved into the door.

Later he would find the word again, the beginnings of which were scratched with fingernails into the stone floor beside Erik's bed.

Unlike Erik's previous breakdown, in which he carved and wrote whole phrases and sentences, it seemed that, this time, only a single word haunted the priest's troubled mind.

_ANArKH_

_Fate._

---------------------------------------------------

Pierre was having the best of mornings. It had taken him a moment, upon waking, to recognize his surroundings. However, when the memories of his adventures and 'marriage' from the preceding night came flooding back to him, he just had to smile.

He had been sleeping on a sofa that was too short and it had become quite uncomfortable. As he stretched and made to get up, he was met with an irritated mew of protest. He looked down and saw Amica, Christine's pretty black cat, curled up comfortably on his stomach.

"Ah! Well here is a female not opposed to sleeping with me!" he said indignantly, scratching Amica behind the ears and making her purr.

Pierre stood, taking the feline in his arms, and began speaking. It truly didn't matter that the cat was there--being the true dramatic poet that he was, Pierre was prone to monologue--however, it _did_ feel nice to make believe someone was listening.

"So today I am a vagabond." he said to the cat, "What do you suppose I shall be doing? I can't exactly see myself becoming a pickpocket. It seems to me that I would attract too much attention, don't you think? I'd rather not become a bandit--messy business, that is! I might consider dressing up like those cripples and begging for alms. Though, one as garrulous as myself might drive more people away than draw them in. Oh, don't look at me that way! I cannot help it! My mind is simply too full of thoughts for me to keep them to myself. I should like to see you try to be as brilliant as I--just for a day--then you'd see how truly I suffer for my art. Perhaps, then, I shall take up a profession worthy of my eloquence. A performer of some sort? A fortune teller, perhaps? What do you think I should do, Amica?"

"She thinks you should deliver that letter you penned for me last night." replied an amused female voice.

"Ah-ha! So the princess emerges!" he commented, not the slightest bit embarrassed by having been caught talking to a cat.

"Well, then," he added, taking the letter from Christine's hand with a flourish, "as my lady commands, I shall accomplish the task post haste."

He set down the cat and grabbed an apple off the table and made his way toward the door. However, before he took two steps, he nearly tripped over Amica, who had already entangled herself between his legs.

"What's this? Go on now, cat, I have important work to do."

The cat merely glared at him, meowing angrily and blocking the exit with her little body.

"It would seem she wants to come along," the poet said, looking at Christine questioningly.

The dancer shrugged. In truth, she was rather surprise that her little furry companion had taken interest in anyone other than herself. Amica was a finicky cat, bestowing affection upon a select few while showering the rest with viciousness.

The philosopher shrugged back and turned, once again, toward the door---armed with breakfast and an important mission and ready to take on the world with a kitten at his heels.

---------------------------------------------------

_One week later…_

Raoul stared vacantly over the balcony. Had he been paying attention, the captain would have had to admit that this place had, perhaps, the most spectacular view in all of Paris--second only to the tallest tower in Notre-Dame.

However, he was not paying attention. At the moment he had other thoughts on his mind.

A little over a week ago, he had saved a beautiful gypsy girl from a would-be kidnapper. To his chagrin, she had disappeared moments later without leaving him with so much as a name.

The next day, an overly talkative, strangely dressed man with a black cat approached him with a letter.

_Dear Captain,_

_I am forever grateful for the help you lent me last eve. I shudder to think of what would have happened had you not been there to rescue me. I wish to see you again to thank you in person. _

_Ever yours,_

_Christine_

Upon reading it, he had immediately regretted his haste in sending away the messenger without offering a reply. Now he would have to find the girl himself.

And what then? He wondered what she meant by 'thank you in person'. He knew what he hoped she'd meant and the very thought made him hard.

He definitely wanted to get to know this delicious creature better. However, judging by the haste in which she fled him last night, he knew he would have to approach the matter delicately.

"Good Captain? Have you been listening to me?" inquired Madame Aloise.

"Mm?" Raoul said, turning back to his companions on the balcony.

Raoul de Chagny probably deserved the envy of every man in France. He was admittedly handsome; an imposing young man, partaking in just enough vanity and bravado to appear attractive but not conceited. When he was dressed--as he was now--in the elegant garb of the captain of the king's archers, his image could easily be likened to that of Apollo or Jupiter.

Surrounding him were four or five (for he had not taken the time to count) lovely young females dressed in silk and velvet, adorned with pearls serving to further enhance their already white skin and delicate physiques. As their dress would imply, the girls were all noble and wealthy heiresses.

The loveliest of all, a fair maiden with silvery-blond hair and pale blue eyes, was known as Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier and it was her family's residence in which the captain found himself currently.

The other young ladies, who were all giggling and whispering and vying for the officer's attention, were all Fleur's bridesmaids who had come from their various cities to help her prepare for her… for _his_… wedding. Occasionally he would glance in their direction and the girls would all sigh. Then he would look away, rolling his eyes, and return to polishing the buckle of his belt with his doeskin glove.

To his annoyance, it was Madame Aloise de Gondelaurier--the mother of the bride--that kept trying to engage him in conversation.

"Just look at my daughter," she said, tugging on the young man's shirtsleeve, "Have you ever beheld a more charming face? Have you ever seen skin so white, hair so blond, hands so perfect and neck so graceful?"

Raoul shook his head indulgently tried to take back his arm, but the woman held tight and continued, "Is not my Fleur-de-Lys adorably beautiful and are you not desperately in love with her?"

"Of course, Madame." he said.

"Then say something, young man!" she said suddenly, giving his shoulder a light push. "You have become so timid!"

One should note that _timidity_ was never on the list of traits one might attribute to Raoul de Chagny.

Still, he sighed and walked over to do what was expected of him. That is all he was doing here--what was expected of him. As one could have easily ascertained by now, this was not a marriage of love. Actually, the concept of marriage at all cooled him significantly. Raoul was much too young, with too much life left in him to be tied down so soon.

Though noble of birth, Raoul felt much more at-home with the commoners. His brother, Philippe, who had taken charge of his education when his parents died, had sent him out into the world at a young age to become an officer.

The life of an officer can be a vulgar one, especially to one as impressionable as he had once been. Consequently, while his parentage called him to be a gentleman, he had spent enough time in taverns that he had a more-than-proper inclination towards drinking games, course language, and women.

He had, therefore, two reasons to be nervous in circumstances such as this. The first being that, having whispered words of love to so many different women, he had few left for this one. The second being the constant worry that some oath or swear word would inadvertently issue from his mouth, as habitual as his cursing had become.

Taking a deep breath, he approached Fleur and said, "My dear, what is that you are sewing?"

"_My dear,_" she answered sarcastically without raising her eyes, "I have told you at least three times. I am making a tapestry of Neptune."

It was obvious that Fleur-de-Lys, unlike her mother, did not have the same delusions in regards to the captain's cold demeanor.

Realizing that he had committed some offensive act to the young girl, decided that he had better make it right quickly by paying her some sort of compliment. However, when he bent to whisper into her delicate ear, the only thing he could think of to say was,

"Why does your mother dress like that? That fashion is at least twenty years old and it's decorated enough to make her look like a walking mantelpiece."

Fleur looked at him incredulously, "Is that all you can think of to say?" she demanded.

Raoul paled only slightly but was saved when Bérangère, Fleur's seven year old cousin, came running excitedly into the room.

"Look down there!" she cried, pointing over the edge of the balcony to where a large group of people had formed, "Look, Fleur, at that pretty dancer who is playing the tambourine!"

Raoul exhaled. _I'm going to buy that child a pony._ Relieved, he retreated further into the house.

Fleur watched the dancer for a moment and, seeing an opportunity for conversation, asked, "Monsieur, did you not tell us of a Bohemian woman you rescued last week from the hands of _a dozen robbers_?"

"I… um… yes, I did."

"Come over here, dear Raoul, and see," she insisted, motioning for him. Eager to earn the lady's forgiveness, the captain complied and looked down into the street.

It was _her_!

His heart quickened and his breath hitched, but he tried to maintain his cool façade.

"It might be. Yes, I do believe it is." he said indifferently, willing his racing heart to slow.

Bérangère clapped. "She is such a lovely dancer!" she exclaimed gleefully. The other women agreed. Raoul was unreadable.

"Monsieur," Fleur said, "since you know the Bohemian, perhaps you could call her up here to entertain us?"

Raoul grinned. There could not have been a more perfect opportunity. Here he was contemplating how to contact the young woman without his fiancé's awareness. Now, gods be thanked, she had actually _asked _him to summon her. Today might be a good day after all.

---------------------------------------------------

Christine was dancing yet again, enjoying the freedom and sunlight. Today, Pierre was out with her, managing the crowd. Considering their odd arrangement, she had found a friend in the poet. Now, whenever she danced in the streets, Pierre and Amica were there to accompany her.

As was her habit, between dances she glanced up in the direction of Note-Dame and shuddered. He was there again. _Why does he hate me so?_ Those eyes were watching her. The vision struck fear into her.

And, indeed, it should have!

The archdeacon had been watching her, as always, leaning on the balustrade with his face in his hands. Aside from the occasional involuntary shiver that passed through him, his entire body was motionless as a statue or, better yet, a hawk watching a nest of sparrows. He could have been easily made of stone.

Only his eyes were alive.

Her gaze faltered when, in the silence between songs, she heard a familiar voice calling to her.

"Little one! Little one! Up here!"

She used her hand as a shield against the sunlight and recognized Raoul de Chagny motioning to her from the balcony of a nearby house.

With a cry of delight, the girl took up her tambourine and ran happily in the direction of the house, abandoning Pierre and Amica to handle the astonished spectators and a certain priest to gape disbelievingly at her retreating form.

* * *

Please review!! 


	8. United by a common threat

_Disclaimer: I own neither Phantom of the Opera, nor Notre Dame de Paris. _

* * *

By the time Christine reached the stairs of the old building, her excitement had turned to apprehension. _I can't believe it! I'm finally going to see him. This is the man I've been dreaming about--my handsome captain, my hero, my rescuer… the man I just might be falling in _love_ with! Oh, but am I ready for this? I'm so nervous! What if he despises me? What if he thinks I'm below him? Who were those other girls on the balcony?_

By the time a servant ushered her into the elaborately decorated parlor, she was blushing and breathless, walking with tottering steps toward the group, with a troubled look upon her pretty face. She waited on the threshold, eyes lowered, not daring to advance another step, already steeling herself for the harsh scrutiny of the group.

Bérangère clapped her hands excitedly but did not approach the dancer, as she was very eager to mimic the sophistication of the older girls.

All-in-all, the poor dancer encountered a rather glacial response from the room. The captain regarded her with awe. The ladies… less so.

While the maidens had previously enjoyed vying against each other for the handsome captain's attentions, employing all their female charms and coquetries to win a few words or one of Raoul's wolfish grins, the competition had been friendly. Since the women all possessed the same beauty, they played on equal terms.

However, Christine's appearance was like introducing a lighted torch to a darkened room.

Raoul sensed it, that much was obvious. His previously blasé attitude was ignited. Granted, the change was slight but, as he was the only man in the room, every one of the young women picked up on it.

You see, it was impossible to judge the extent of the girl's radiance from such a distance. However, upon close inspection, the ladies all sensed that an enemy had arrived. Just as a single drop of red wine is sufficient to tinge an entire glass of water, there is no better way to rally the ill-temper of an entire group of pretty women than to introduce a prettier one.

"What have we here?" the captain said, "Such a charming creature! What do you think of her?"

It is safe to say that this statement did _nothing_ to lessen the jealous tension of which the captain was oblivious.

"Not bad." said Fleur blandly. The others, clustered behind her as if afraid lest a fight break out, began to whisper.

Again, the gentleman managed to miss the rather evident disdain entirely.

"Approach, little one, so that we may have a better look at you." demanded Madame Aloise.

"Yes. Approach, little one!" repeated Bérangère with an almost comic attempt at sophistication (considering the child might barely reach to Christine's hip!).

Ever so slowly, the gypsy approached, knowing full well that she was entering into a pit of vipers and yet so infatuated that she could not help but proceed.

"Dear child," Raoul said, taking a few steps toward the timid young woman, "I wonder if you might remember me from the other night?"

"Oh! Yes." she replied, delighted that that charming voice should be directed towards her.

"But you fled from me so swiftly!" he exclaimed with the hint of a pout, "Did I frighten you?"

"Oh! No!" she answered breathlessly.

By this time, Fleur-de-Lys was thoroughly irked and wounded by this entire conversation.

Somehow, the captain's earlier laconical mood had been miraculously healed by the presence of the gypsy.

He continued, "I wish you had not run, my beauty. I would have been glad to take you home. Instead of enjoying your company a little longer, I was left to the messy business of dealing with that creature you left behind. Tell me, whatever did that beast want with you?"

Christine shuddered, suddenly remembering those bony fingers and that vice-like grip. She could honestly say that she had never felt more terror than she did that night. _Then again… I may never have met you, Captain Raoul de Chagny!_

"I do not know." she replied honestly.

"Well, do not fret any longer, darling girl. I assure you that the monster paid dearly for it. My men and I made sure that that lout thinks twice before attempting to carry off pretty young girls in the street."

"…that is, if he survived." he added as an afterthought.

"That poor man!" she gasped, suddenly connecting her would-be attacker with the dying man in the street.

"Bloody hell!" the captain laughed, turning to the group of ladies, "Would you believe that? Even after everything… she would still have pity on that bast--"

Suddenly realizing his error, he coughed and muttered, "I'm sorry ladies, I fear I was about to say something foolish. I did not mean any offense!"

Fleur took this chance to speak up. "Nonsense, Monsieur, you were merely speaking to the creature in her own language!"

The other girls laughed lightly, Bérangère included.

Raoul, however, took no notice. His smoldering gaze was fixed squarely on the enchantress in front of him. She blushed and Raoul had to restrain himself not to reach out and brush that flaming cheek with his fingertips.

"so perfect…" he whispered in a low tone that only she could hear.

That is not true. Fleur heard it as well.

"I don't know," she said, "She's rather savagely dressed."

"So true, Fleur," another lady added, "It's hard to believe that someone would go about in public dressed like that!"

"Her petticoat is so short!"

"Her girdle is so scandalous!"

"Hear, hear, little one. Perhaps your arms would not be so brown if you wore proper sleeves on occasion!"

"It's amazing she has not already been picked up by the police!"

Meanwhile, Christine stood motionless, enduring the abuse for the privilege of enjoying the captain's presence just a moment longer. _Why did they bring me up here? Do they expect me to dance for them after all this? Would I? Who am I fooling, of course I would… I would do anything for _him._ Oh, my darling captain!_ Though they continued to rain insults upon her, her eyes never strayed from Raoul's.

The way she looked at him--with a mixture of sadness and resignation and yet so much happiness and tenderness--was enough to place a shred of pity in the heart of the officer. When he saw her eyes begin to glisten with tears, he stepped in on her behalf.

"Now, now, child, just let them talk!" he said with a laugh, "They could not find any fault with your beauty and so have deigned to attacking your fashion!"

"If I didn't know better," one lady said jokingly (though not without a hint of bitterness), "I'd say that the captain of the king's archers fancies the little urchin!"

The girls all laughed prettily. All except Fleur-de-Lys, she merely scowled in a most unladylike fashion, mortified by her fiancé's behavior.

"And why should I not?" Raoul asked, grinning cheekily.

Had the young man been more sensible with his careless words just now, he would not have sent Fleur running from the room in tears.

This was not going well at all.

The other maidens gasped and quickly emptied the room in pursuit of their friend.

Madame Aloise was furious with the Bohemian woman for disrupting the blossoming romance of her daughter and future son-in-law.

"BE GONE FROM MY HOUSE, LITTLE WITCH!" she screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the door.

Christine jumped at the outburst and hastened toward the exit.

Raoul, therefore, was left in the middle, standing between two doorways through which two beautiful women had escaped.

For a moment, the boy hesitated, glancing back and forth between each portal.

In the end, though, he went after the gypsy.

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Erik stood against the wall of his cell, gazing out the window and down below. One might think it odd that, with all of Paris at his feet, he would choose to look solely upon one figure. Erik did not find it odd. Even if the whole world were at his feet, only that single figure would matter. The little dancer, the gypsy, the Bohemian, the Egyptian---whatever one chose to call her. In truth, at least in the eye of the monk, she was _his _Christine.

But wait.

Who else was that with her?

Narrowing his eyes, he peered down at the street and saw a man, dressed oddly in reds and yellows, maneuvering about the crowd while Christine performed. He tried to see if he recognized the fool but, alas, he was too high up. _What is this? _he wondered. _She was always alone before! _

Suddenly, the priest's mind reeled, thinking of all the possible meanings this could have. All thoughts came to the same conclusion, though. _Someone_ was moving in on _his_ Christine. Even he had to admit that these thoughts were terribly possessive and territorial for one in his position. Still, he could not help it. The mere thought of another man's hands on the young woman made him seethe.

He heard a three short knocks at the door before the visitor let himself in. It was Father Mansart--it always was--who, in light of Erik's recent injuries, had taken to letting himself in.

"Erik?" the old man said gently.

"What do you want?" the archdeacon snapped without looking away from the window.

"You know what I want. You promised that when you were well enough, we would discuss this."

The masked man crossed his arms, effectively hiding the ugly bandages covering his broken fingers.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he drawled with an air of arrogance ill-befitting a clergyman.

Had it not been so completely out of character for him to do so, his companion might have smirked. He had dealt with Erik's foul moods for as long as he could remember. He had raised the boy, after all! The old man was _not_ in a position to be intimidated.

"Who is she?" he asked bluntly.

"What are you talking about, old man?"

"You know very well, Erik!" Father Mansart snarled, no longer in the mood for games. "Who is _she_?" He pulled the drawings from his satchel and thrust them in Erik's face and blocking his view of the street.

It is impossible to say what irritated Erik more--being confronted on his current obsession or being distracted from his surveillance of said obsession.

"THAT IS NONE OF YOUR CONCERN!" he roared, eyes flashing dangerously as he tore the sketches from the Father's hands.

"I think that it is!" exclaimed Father Mansart. He spoke softer than his furious companion, but with no less intensity. Both could be formidable men when they wanted to be.

"Listen, Erik," he said in a gentler tone, "You don't know what it was like for me… seeing you like that. I thought you were dead!"

"You wouldn't be the first," Erik retorted dryly.

"That is not what I meant and you know it. Listen to me, Erik! What if I had not been there? My son, I will not always be around to look in on you. You _need_ to get control over your mind. I know that girl… that gypsy… um… Christia, I think…"

"Christine…" he murmured like a prayer.

"I _know_ she is responsible for this. Erik, she is not for you. That is not the path you've chosen."

Gesturing to his mask, Erik grated, "You think this _path _was _my _choice?"

Mansart put a placatory hand up. "Nevertheless," he said, "Your soul belongs to God. Put this woman out of your mind."

"I can't do that, Father."

"She has bewitched you, then?"

"I believe she has."

"Then she is a witch and should be dealt with accordingly."

"Are you suggesting I denounce the child?" Erik said incredulously.

"If that is what you must do," was his grave response, "But, I tell you the truth, son, that this must end. If she is truly doing the work of the devil it is your _duty_ to----"

The old priest never got a chance to finish his thought. As he was speaking, Erik watched a scene unfold on the street in which a group of nobles called _his_ Christine away from her dancing to their house. His eyes widened, nothing had happened like this before. _What is the meaning of this? Where is she going? WHY?_

Suddenly, a wave of panic struck him and he rushed out the door, shoving his old friend aside as he did so. Then, despite the protest of his bruised muscles and broken bones, he flew with superhuman speed down the narrow staircase.

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"Well, Amica, I suppose it's just you and me now." Pierre said, looking solemnly at the cat. Amica looked back up at him and tilted her head in a way that made Pierre believe her green eyes held some glimmer of understanding.

He made believe a lot of things. Such is the nature of a true dramatic poet.

"Don't fret, my dear," he said to her as a brilliant idea came to into his head, "I will salvage this situation. But you have to trust me. Do you think you can do that? I thought so."

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the poet announced, "Pay no heed to the beautiful Christine, for she has only disappeared for a moment and shall return to you with haste. However, there is no reason for us to be bored in her absence! Therefore, my friends, I present to you for your entertainment pleasure, a dance of a different sort."

Over the next few minutes, he managed to locate a rickety wooden chair to which he fastened (with rope supplied by a helpful spectator) the poor cat.

-------------------------------------------------------

When Christine cleared the building and found herself, once again, in the street, she ducked into a quiet alley. Safe in her relative privacy, she allowed her tears of embarrassment to finally fall. _Oh what have I done! He must hate me! He must think I am foolish and dirty. Oh! Those horrid women! Did they call me up there just to taunt me? _

_But, did he not defend you? Did he not treat you with respect, even in front of those heiresses? _

As Christine argued with herself, she did not notice Raoul follow her out of the house and into the alley. She jumped a bit when he put his hands around her waist, still a touch on edge from her attempted kidnapping, but she calmed down as soon as she heard his voice.

"Shhh, little one. Do not be afraid."

She looked up into the captain's captivating blue eyes and smiled through her tears. Holding her close to him with one arm, he used his free hand to wipe the tears off her cheeks. When he was done he kissed her forehead.

"I thought you would hate me," she whispered.

"The only reason I should hate you is for running away like that. Twice now." he teased. She looked horrified so he added, "I do not hate you, my beauty. No, not at all. My feelings for you are so…"

When he trailed off, Christine could not take it any more. "Yes?" she said breathlessly

He kissed each damp cheek and then pressed his lips against hers. She sighed into his kiss. She had never truly been kissed by a man before. His lips were warm and soft and gentle. When he cupped the side of her face with his free hand, she thought she could die happy.

He reluctantly broke the contact and, still stroking her face, said, "I want to see you again. Meet me at _la Falourdel's _this time next week, shall we say… seven in the evening?"

"Yes," she sighed, following with her gaze the man's finger pointing her in the direction of a battered old inn.

"Perfect." he said softly. Then, with all gallantry and charm, kissed the gypsy's hand and said, "Then, milady, I shall look forward to seeing you again." He turned an elegant pirouette on his golden-spurred heel and walked back into the street.

Christine touched her fingers to her lips, trying to hold on to the feeling of his kisses. There she stood for several long minutes with flushed cheeks and a slight smile, daydreaming of her handsome captain and the wonderful life they would have together. _I am in love!_

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Erik burst through the doors leading to the crowded square. He began maneuvering through the considerable assembly that had been gathered at the sound of the famous gypsy's tambourine.

"What has become of the Bohemian?" he asked.

"I do not know," replied a neighbor, "I think she has gone to that house yonder. She was called there only a few minutes ago. I expect the wanted her for a private dance."

The implications of 'private dance' made the jealous priest reel.

The archdeacon was on the verge of leaving to do some sort of damage to… something. Just as he turned, a juggler in a ridiculous red and yellow costume--truly, it was the same man that he had seen from above--passed by him. The man was straining, with his arms on his hips, his face red, and his neck outstretched. Between his teeth he held the leg of a chair. Upon the chair was fixed a black cat which was bristling and spitting in fright.

Suddenly recognizing the strange man, Erik wondered aloud, "What is Master Pierre doing here?"

At the harsh voice of the archdeacon, the poor poet-turned-juggler lost all his equilibrium and the delicate pyramid came crashing down on the heads of the spectators. Luckily, the unhappy cat managed to escape its captivity. This happened not, however, before numerous people found themselves covered in scratches and cuts.

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Master Pierre's distraction in his recognition of the archdeacon had sorry consequences. He decided that he should probably engage in a little more practice before attempting that particular trick again. Indeed, he would have had a hefty account to settle with the owners of all those scratched faces had he not snuck away, in the confusion, towards Erik, who had gestured for him to follow.

When they had progressed far enough into the cathedral that it was clear they could speak in private, Erik turned and rested his back against a pillar and gazed intently at the young man before him. There was no mocking in the priest's gaze, as Pierre had expected in such a situation. Rather, it was tranquil and serious, though not without a certain piercing intensity.

After an intimidating and awkward silence, Master Erik finally spoke.

"Care to explain yourself, Master Pierre? How is it that I have not seen you in quite some time and then you show up, dressed thus and performing unnatural spectacles in public squares?"

At least Pierre had the sense to be embarrassed before his mentor, especially dressed garishly as he was. But, he did not apologize for his odd predicament.

Instead, he met the tall man's stare and said, "Monsieur, I agree that this all looks a bit strange. In truth, I believe I had little choice. You see, I was recently evicted from my residence, meager as it was, and sent out into the streets. I was, therefore, left with no food, nor shelter, with but a scrap of clothing on my back to protect me from the harsh winter that is approaching. Hence it follows, sir, that I should seek employment."

"And a fine profession you have chosen!" said the priest in a half-annoyed, half-amused tone as he gestured a graceful hand toward the poet's fantastic attire.

"I agree, my master! I do not doubt that it is far better to philosophize and write poetry than to carry cats on chairs. Indeed, I would much prefer to engage my intellectual faculties in some greater endeavor than banging tambourines and biting furniture. Still, reverend master, a man has to eat!"

The monk listened to his companion talk in silence. When he had finished, though, his stare became so penetrating that Pierre could feel the bottom of his soul searched with a glance.

Onto the question that Erik truly wanted to know...

"That is all well and good, Master Pierre. But tell me, how is it I have found you in the company of that gypsy dancer?"

"Ah!" replied the poet, "That, sir, is because she is my wife."

Suddenly, Erik's gloomy expression turned to flame. He lurched forward and grabbed the young man's arm in his painfully tight grip.

Glaring dangerously he cried, "Wretch! What have you done? Have you abandoned God to such an extent that you would… you would…" he was at a loss for words.

The philosopher, trembling violently, replied, "I swear I have not touched her, if that is what you are asking. Is that the part that disturbs you so?"

"Then why do you speak of being her husband?" he growled, giving the frightened man's arm another shake.

Pierre hastily recounted the story of following Christine into the Court of Miracles, nearly being hung to death, and being saved by the girl's claim of marriage. Additionally, he explained with no small amount of indignation the platonic nature of their relationship, nearly whining about how he had been denied his 'husbandly rights' every night since.

Noticing how the archdeacon's temper seemed to subside as the tale continued, Pierre grew bolder in his commentary.

"Alas, I suppose it is a travesty that I must endure for having the misfortune to marry a virgin!"

Pierre could not see his companions face, but he could almost be sure the man was scowling when he said this.

"What do you mean?" the archdeacon ground out slowly.

Pierre sighed. "Well, you see, sir, it is a bit difficult to explain. From what I have gathered, the girl was a foundling who was given into the protection of the Duke of Egypt--an old thief the Bohemians have named their King--who, noticing the rare beauty of the child, intended on selling her off someday to some wealthy suitor. To keep the girl's… let's say… marketability… he filled her head full of superstitious nonsense about the dire curses and maledictions that should fall about herself and her tribe should she lose her virtue. Consequently, we both remain very virtuous."

"Maledictions?"

"Yes, you know, fire and locusts and pestilence of that sort. Furthermore--and I believe this is what holds the child to her nun-like prudery more so than those other threats--she believes that she will never find true love if she loses her purity."

Erik released the other man's arm and put his hand under his chin in deep contemplation.

"Are you saying, Pierre, that you believe this creature has never been approached by _any_ man?" he asked incredulously. This did not fit the reputation of the Bohemians. Especially this young dancer… he could not imagine that with her beauty, and her scandalous displays of public dancing that she would have any more purity than that of an average whore. It was not a thought he dwelt upon often, as it would only serve to contribute to his madness tenfold. He had simply accepted it as fact and obsessed over her other attributes.

"What can a man do in the face of superstition? If you know the answer to that you are a far wiser man than I!" the poet retorted

"What's worse, Master Erik, is that the young woman is as innocent as she is passionate. She is ignorant of everything and enthusiastic about everything. I have it on good authority that she knows not even the difference between man and woman!"

"Moreover, if a man should try to instruct her in such things, she has three things in which she may call upon for her defense: The Duke of Egypt who, as I have said holds a certain paternal affection for the child; the rest of the tribe who, you must have noticed, holds her in almost goddess-like reverence; and, lastly, a wickedly sharp poniard that she keeps concealed in her gown that she is more than skilled in using should a man so much as lay his hands on her waist. I have come to terms with our odd arrangement. If I cannot be her husband, then I will be content to be her brother. When I am true to myself, I must admit that I am not as madly in love with her as I thought. Come to think of it, I love her cat just as dearly. Such a charming animal, that cat…"

Erik listened intently as the philosopher continued to speak. Much of the man's babblings were irrelevant or contained information of which he already had knowledge. However, two things Pierre said disturbed him greatly.

"…you see, my master, some say that Christine is loved by the entirety of Paris. I believe this to be true. She is believed to be hated by only one man--some priest who has never passed by her without issuing glares or words that frighten her. Aside from that, my wife is fearless. She…"

Erik was confused and angry, though he knew not at what. As much effort as he had put into frightening and intimidating the girl, to finally hear that she feared him and believed in his hatred… for some reason the thought upset him.

"…And what an odd girl, she is! When she is daydreaming or thinks she is alone, I hear her sighing or mumbling the word 'Raoul' again and a again."

At this, the priest finally stopped his companion's monologue.

"Raoul? Why Raoul?" he asked urgently, gripping poor man's arm once again.

Pierre winced as bony fingers pressed the skin that had already begun to bruise. "I do not know!" he cried, "It is just some word, I assume. You know how those Bohemians are, with their spells and magic words. It means nothing to me."

"Are you sure it is not a name?" the priest asked, yellow eyes narrowed.

"Hmm. A name? I suppose it had never occurred to me. Oh, but what does it matter? Even if it is a name… I'm sure he loves her just as much as Amica loves me!"

"Amica?"

"her cat."

Erik thought a moment. "And you swear to me you have never touched her?"

"The cat?"

"The woman!"

"Ah, I see. Would it truly be so bad?"

"My friend, that way of thinking leads to the pillory."

"Perhaps, but what a fine road it is! Besides, are there not worse things in life?"

"The pillory leads to the gallows."

"The gallows is a balance which has a man at one end and the whole earth at the other." said the philosopher grandly, then added, "It is just fine to be the man!"

"The gallows leads to Hell."

The poet had spent too many nights in the cold for one lifetime. He shrugged, "At least there is a big enough fire there."

The priest shook his head sagaciously. "I'm afraid this will end badly."

Again he shrugged, "At least the beginning will have been good." He gave an impish grin, thinking once again about the pretty woman who shared his house, if not his bed.

Acting on some furious impulse, Erik suddenly grabbed the poet's throat and pinned him to a wall. "Swear to me on your mother's grave that you have not laid a finger on that woman!" he growled.

"I will also swear on the head of my father!" he cried, suddenly terrified, "But, sir, what business is of yours?"

The masked man dropped his companion in a heap on the floor and then lent him a hand as he struggled to his feet. The innocent question had inspired such embarrassment in the priest that he had to pause a moment before he could answer.

"It is for your sake, I assure you, that I am concerned. You see, Master Pierre, I have taken an interest in your well being. You have not condemned yourself yet, as far as I know. But, for the sake of your _soul_ you must stay away from gypsy women! Especially _that_ one. Even if you have no regard for your salvation, I do."

Pierre suddenly felt very ashamed for having taken such a cavalier attitude with the priest who was only trying to look out for him. He sighed and decided to come clean. "I'll be honest with you, Master Erik, I tried… but only once. That is how I learned of that dagger she keeps on her."

"You _dared _to…" Erik challenged, trailing off as his eye's blazed once again.

"Oh! and once," remembered the young scholar with a smile (apparently, he was incapable of remaining serious for any reasonable length of time!), "As she readied herself for bed, I peeked in through the keyhole of her room. She was in nothing but her shift and let me tell you----"

Erik couldn't take it anymore. He shoved Pierre hard down onto the floor shouting, "The devil take you!" before disappearing into the darker corners of Notre-Dame in a most violent mood.

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Pierre sat there indignantly for a few minutes. Then he rose from the ground and dusted himself off. He was more annoyed at having been interrupted than at his teacher's angry reaction. However, as one not to linger on such emotions, he shook his head, shrugged and set off in search of Amica.

Before he had gone to far down the street, he bumped into a tall, gallant officer. Indeed, it was Raoul de Chagny, captain of the king's archers.

The captain looked down at the man, ready to pull his sword for such an offense, when he recognized the strange looking person as the one who had delivered Christine's letter to him.

"Good day to you, sir!" the officer said gaily.

"Captain Raoul de Chagny! A good day to you as well!" replied the poet.

As a man who was so bright in some arenas and so very dim in others, he vaguely wondered if this Raoul de Chagny was one and the same with the Raoul that Christine often whispered about. In the end, though, he brushed the thought aside as inconsequential.

There was, however, another man who had followed Pierre out of Notre-Dame who was more disposed to make such connections. Upon hearing the name 'Raoul', his head perked up and he listened more intently on the conversation. _So _this_ is the insolent boy who has stolen my lady's heart! _

"I believe, friend, that I owe you a debt of gratitude." exclaimed the soldier.

"And how is that?"

"Why, that gypsy girl whose letter you delivered. A stunning creature, I say! Anyway, she has agreed to… meet with me at this time next week at _la Falourdel's_. It is high time! I thought the child would take a little more convincing. It appears, though, that that was not the case. In fact, I would say that she is in love with me, if it were possible for her kind to feel such an emotion."

"You are a much luckier man than I, sir. How about a drink?"

"I do believe one is in order." smirked the captain.

When matters of love and jealousy are at hand, one should be more prudent about where they share information. As the two men happily made their way through the city towards _Eve's Apple_, the tavern of choice, the masked priest stood in the shadows with a clenched jaw and pounding head.

_She deserves better than that idiotic poet or that miserable, arrogant lout. And how _dare_ he speak about her in such a way! No! This cannot be. Christine, you must love me! She must love _me_. Nobody takes that which is mine! That foolish boy will pay. I swear it. _

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**Note: In retrospect, it was not a great idea for me to have three stories going at once during midterms. As a result, I have decided to prioritize my updates based on which story gets the most reviews that particular week. Do what you wish, but keep that in mind if you like what you're reading. **


	9. The makings of a nightmare

_Disclaimer: I own neither Phantom of the Opera nor Notre Dame de Paris. This story is based off of the novels by Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo._

**Author's Note: Just a warning, the next chapter after this one is going to get a little intense and violent so the rating will probably go up. I thought I'd warn you now so you're not surprised in a few days. Anyway, thanks for reviewing! You guys are awesome.**

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He found himself smiling at her as she looked down, blushing. The beauty was so pure and sweet that the hungry look in his eyes made the modest girl shy away.

"Do not be afraid," he whispered, touching her chin with his thumb and forefinger to bring her face to meet his gaze.

"I am not," she murmured back, "Not when I'm with you."

She smiled nervously and he leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the lips. He felt her relax under his hands as he kissed her and, encouraged, he pressed his lips to her again more forcefully.

She sighed and he nearly lost all his restraint. He buried one hand in her hair and used the other to draw her closer. She did not resist but seemed to welcome his embrace. She was so soft and pliable in his arms. It is possible that he had never experienced such a glorious feeling.

As he kissed her, he ran his hand up and down her back and then moved it to her side, wanting to feel more of her curves. As he caught the scent of her hair, a sudden curiosity struck him. _She smells wonderful and feels so soft… I wonder what she tastes like._

He moved his lips to her neck and shoulders, groaning in happiness as he nipped gently and occasionally flicked his tongue over her delicate skin. Surely life could not get any better. _Then again…_

Slowly and carefully, he lowered her to the blanket he had laid out on the grass. Again she smiled at him, not so shyly this time. The sight of her smiling beneath him sent a possessive spark shooting through his body and, without warning, he lowered his head to the juncture between her neck and shoulder and bit her there hard enough to leave a mark. She gasped at the feeling but pulled him closer to her.

"Mine…" he growled under his breath as he attacked her lips again.

"Thine… ever thine," she murmured against his mouth.

He pulled back and looked at the purplish mark that had formed on her skin. He had left it so that there would be no doubt in her mind of whom she belonged to. Then his gaze shifted so that he was looking into her eyes. They were so beautiful--big black eyes that shone with warmth and passion… and all directed at him!

She looked at him seriously for a moment and then said, "I want you to know that… that… I lov----"

She stopped mid-thought and looked up behind him. His eyes widened, so desperate was he to hear her finish those words that he had to refrain from shaking her in frustration.

"Say it!" he pleaded harshly. The girl only continued to look past him. After an unbearably long moment, he turned and looked over his shoulder.

There, on the grass behind them, stood another man. He was tall and his muscular physique was covered with layers upon layers of armor that flashed gold in the sun.

He looked, painfully, back to the woman beneath him. Her eyes still fixed on the handsome man behind him. She was smiling widely at him. What wounded him the most, however, was the look in her eyes. There was such joy and adoration there that he had not seen before. She gazed at the golden man as if he were a god.

The man smirked and opened his arms and the girl scrambled to push him off of her and threw herself into the other man's embrace.

He looked at her, feeling as if his heart had just been ground to pieces. As she leaned up to kiss the other man, he noticed that the mark he had left on her neck had fully disappeared.

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Erik started awake from his deep sleep, panting and sweating. He'd had another dream.

Occasionally he heard others speaking of their dreams to each other and he noticed that, more often than not, people forgot their dreams upon waking. He envied those people. No, life could not be so easy for Erik. He had to remember each and every detail.

Each night the dreams tortured his once peaceful rest. Inevitably he would awaken after only a few hours, overcome with feelings of desire and longing. A mixture of depression and desperation and madness would wash over him, driving him from his cell that he might find some refuge in books or in music.

Granted, both activities would be inevitably fruitless. In all truth, the sounds that he produced from the mighty pipe organ on these nights were the most terrifying of all. If one questioned his salvation, those aching melodies--that came from the mind of insanity--would erase all doubt. It may not be enough to declare him a sorcerer, but it was clear that the music Erik created was not of God.

In the disorientation of his abrupt return to consciousness, he struggled to recall where he was. As he looked around he realized that he was not in his bed at all. Rather, he had been laying restlessly on the stone floor beside his mattress. Lately he had given up sleeping in a bed. He hoped that the discomfort of sleeping uncovered on his stone floor would help to cool his blood and distract him from his sinful thoughts.

That also was fruitless as he woke each night writhing on the cold floor, tearing at his hair and grinding his teeth.

_But this night was different. That dream… it was like none other. _

Tonight Erik found himself trembling in every limb; however, it was not desire that elicited such a reaction. Rather, it was a deep, concentrated rage that seemed to permeate every pore and direct his mind to more dangerous thoughts than ever before.

Two thoughts… two _desires_ warred within him: Possession and Destruction.

Erik wanted Christine. That was for sure. At this moment, though, he realized that it was not the fleeting passion that he thought it was. He realized now that he could not just take her and be free of her, as he had in all his dreams previous. No, that was no longer enough. He wanted _all_ of her. He wanted to keep her. More than that, he wanted to lock her away from the world and hold her so that no one could ever take her away. He wanted to control her, to own her…

_To love her?_

Perhaps. The thought hadn't occurred to Erik and it disturbed him greatly. He had never felt the need for love before. Monsters had no room for love, he had often told himself. So why would it enter into his thoughts now? _This certainly complicates the equation._ Furthermore, did he care if she loved him? If this was just another obsession, he would not care what she thought of him. He would do everything in his power to possess her and keep her and, if she despised him for it, so be it. But, if he loved her, would he not leave her alone where she is happy and free?

Erik sighed and decided that it was probably a combination of the two. She would be his… it was only a matter of time. He could not let her go, whatever the consequences to her happiness. However, a part of him truly wished that she would come to him willingly and that she would think of him as often as he thought of her. _We could be so happy…_

But she could not love him. Even if it were not for his wretched face, he would still have that officer to contend with. That is the part of the dream that brought about the destructive portion of his mindset.

The captain. He had stolen Christine's heart and was completely unworthy of it. The little girl was enamored with his handsome face and shiny uniform. Erik looked down at his priest's cassock in disgust.

Of course she would love the captain! But that foolish boy would only break her heart. He did not care about Christine. He wanted only one thing from her.

_But isn't it the same thing you want from her?_

No! Well… maybe. But that was inconsequential. Christine did not belong to de Chagny. She belonged to _him_… or she would shortly. That boy could not have her.

Suddenly Erik thought upon his last conversation with Father Mansart. The man had confirmed his belief that the child was a witch. She had bewitched him, a good and holy man, for the cause of Lucifer. He could not help what he felt for her! She had caused these sinful and destructive feelings in him. It was not his fault! Why did the Devil have to be so much stronger than man?

But what was he to do about it? There was only one way to deal with a witch--one way that would free him from this enchantment. If she were dead, she could no longer have any hold over him and he would be rid of her forever. He could go back to his old life as if she never appeared before him.

_But is that what you want? Do you want your old life… with all its books and charts… slowly, for lack of subject matter, creeping towards the line between safe and dark knowledge? _

_Furthermore, could you even do it? You say you want to be rid of her… but could you actually denounce her to the magistrate? Could you watch her climb the steps of the Place de Grève and hang by the neck before you? Or worse! What if they decided to burn her? Could you simply stand at your window and listen callously to her screams of agony? _

Erik was confused. One thing was certain, he did not like to be confused. Erik had all the answers, all the understanding, all the time. But not anymore. Christine was an enigma. A puzzle he could not solve.

That silly little girl would be the death of them all.

------------------------------------------------------------

"You're not even looking!" Christine protested, turning from her mirror to look at her companion, who was curled up in a chair, petting Amica who was purring in his lap.

"Have I not already told you, Christine? You look lovely." Pierre whined, barely looking up from the pretty black cat. She crossed her arms and huffed, forming that peculiar little pout with her lower lip.

Pierre smirked impishly and continued, "You know, my dear, I will never understand why you are so infatuated with this Raoul. You could have _me_ now! Think about it, you would not have to go anywhere, neither would you have to fret so about your appearance."

"Some help you are." she said, rolling her eyes.

"Oh come now, my beauty, am I really so dreadful? I can offer you the same thing he can and you won't get your heart broken in the end."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Pierre clucked. "Honestly, child, are you so naïve? Why do you suppose the captain of the king's archers would wish to meet with you in a dilapidated inn?"

"I do not know what you are suggesting, sir, but we are very much in love!"

"Truly?" he asked, eyebrow raised suspiciously.

Christine's eye's narrowed and she placed her hands on her hips defensively. "Do you doubt my love?" she demanded.

"Not at all."

"Then _what_?"

"What I _doubt_, ingenious child, is your knowledge of the male mind."

"What is so hard to believe?" she cried, "That a man like my Raoul could love…a… a… a gypsy?"

"Well…" he thought for a moment, "yes, actually."

Really, Pierre doubted that a man like Raoul de Chagny could truly love _anybody_. He would have said as much too if Christine had not immediately fled the room, sobbing. Amica leapt from his lap, hissing angrily, and followed her mistress, leaving a very perplexed Pierre scratching his head and wondering why he always had such rotten luck with females.

------------------------------------------------------------

As night was beginning to fall, Erik found himself pacing outside of _Eve's Apple_, the tavern de Chagny seemed to frequent. He was not entirely certain what had driven him to come here, but he knew that tonight was the night of his supposed meeting with the gypsy girl.

In his heart, Erik prayed that the captain was simply puffing himself up to his companions and that such a meeting between his angel and this arrogant wretch had never been intended. However, he also knew that the likelihood of sleep tonight would be slim indeed if he did not know for certain what had transpired between them.

He had paced in front of _Eve's Apple_ for a good hour and a half and knew Raoul de Chagny to be inside. The supposed rendezvous was scheduled for seven o'clock at _la Falourdel's_. Erik figured that he would wait for Raoul. If the appointed hour had passed and the young man was still carousing in the tavern, he would be able to go home, secure in the knowledge that the man was a liar.

However, Erik would not be so lucky. At six thirty, a couple of jolly young men stumbled out the front steps, clinging to each other to stay upright as they laughed and tripped through the alleyway.

"And that is that which is the thing that I am telling you," slurred the shorter man, "And you're more horned than a unicorn if----"

"My friend, you are drunk." said the taller man.

His companion shrugged and answered, "If it pleases you to say so, Raoul… then, yes, I am drunk."

Raoul, being the more hardened drinker, managed to have retained all his self-possession and endeavored to steady his wobbling comrade.

"Do try to walk straight, at least. You know that I must leave you soon. It is almost seven o'clock and I have an appointment with a woman!" he laughed, righting his friend who had nearly tipped over.

"Leave me then!" the other man cried, "I have three more of you here that can attend to me."

"You, my friend, are raving mad! By the way," he asked, turning out his own empty purse, "have you any money left?"

"Not a sou!" snorted the drunken man

Raoul cursed. "Are you sure? Look at me, man, pay attention! You have no money whatsoever? I am going to meet that little gypsy girl at _la Falourdel's_… how am I supposed to pay for a room? That wart-faced old crone who runs the place won't give me any more credit! Are you saying that we spent _everything_ already? How could we have drunk up that much money?"

"Ah! But it was money well spent, my friend. Now, enough of this nonsense. Stop being such a worrywart. I feel like singin'!" Then he launched into the refrain of some raucous bar song that they had started inside.

Raoul let out another long string of curses and pushed the other man hard on the shoulders. His poor comrade stumbled back against the wall and then slid unceremoniously into a heap on the pavement. The captain groaned but was kind enough to prop the sleeping man up against the wall before shuffling up the street, alone and immeasurably frustrated.

------------------------------------------------------------

Though slightly buzzed from the wine, Raoul was still clearheaded enough to perceive that someone or some_thing_ was following him. Looking out the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow moving along the far wall. He paused experimentally and noted that the shadow paused as well. When he picked up his pace, so did the figure.

When he reached the corner by _la Falourdel's_, he stopped and leaned against a wall with his eyes fixed on the shadowy figure. However, this time the figure did not stop when he did and Raoul watched as it slowly and silently approached him.

Raoul de Chagny was, by no means, a timid man. He was a trained officer with a sword just inches from his grasp. No man dared to toy with the captain of the king's archers. In truth, he had every reason to be brave. However, something about this… spectre… which appeared as no more than a shadow, cloaked in black, with two cat-like, glowing, yellow eyes fixed upon him… it struck terror into the young man's heart.

Suddenly all thoughts deserted the captain save the rumors he had heard about the ghost of a priest--a goblin monk--that had been prowling these streets at night. For a moment, the young man was petrified, too afraid to even blink. Then his faculties returned to him and he scolded himself for his foolishness. _Children's stories! Raoul, are you a coward? Surely you are not frightened by ghost stories meant to scare little children! Obviously this is some highwayman determined to steal your money. Are you going to let him think you are afraid… when you don't even _have_ money for him to steal?_

The captain forced a laugh. "Sir, if you are a robber, I am going to have to disappoint you. I haven't even a sou! However, there is a university nearby and I'm certain that there you may find-----"

The boy's rambling words were cut off when an unhealthily cold and bony hand shot out from the shadow's cloak and gripped onto his upper arm like an eagle's talon.

"Captain Raoul de Chagny!"

The spectre's voice startled him doubly. It seemed to rumble from all around him.

He gasped, "What the devil? How do you know my name?"

The shadow chuckled darkly--_The devil indeed, dear boy--_and continued, "I know more than that. For example, I know that you have a rendezvous this evening."

"Yes," he breathed, trying to keep the tremble from his voice.

Erik, however, had noticed the quickened pulse under his grip and was profoundly pleased with the effect he had wrought on the other man.

"At seven o'clock."

"Yes, in a quarter of an hour."

"At _la Falourdel's_."

"Precisely." Raoul had to stop himself from saying 'sir' after that.

"With a woman?" the shadow all but growled.

"I confess!" he cried, sounding more placatory than arrogant.

"Who is called…"

"Christine."

Erik felt his heart rip in two at the confession. At the utterance of the gypsy girl's name, he shook the young man harshly.

"You lie!" he cried.

It is interesting to note how all of Raoul's previous fears seemed to wash away at the attack on his honor. He gritted his teeth and recoiled so quickly from the monk that he effectively disengaged himself from the man's painful grasp.

He placed his hand on his sword and snarled menacingly, "That is not a word that a Chagny is familiar with! If you knew what was best for you, you would not dare to repeat it!"

"You are a liar." the man repeated evenly.

The officer trembled with rage, all thoughts of goblin monks and ghosts vanished, and drew his sword.

"That's it, then!" he shouted, "I challenge you. Swords! Now! This ends here!"

"But Captain," Erik replied, "you shall be late for your appointment."

Raoul's temper cooled as quickly as it had flared and he lowered his sword.

Erik smirked. This man's emotions were too volatile for his own good. "Listen Chagny," he said, "I can cut your throat another time. First, though, you need to go to your meeting."

The captain faltered. He appeared to be at odds with himself. Women and duels were perhaps his two favorite activities. Why should he have to choose one over the other when this man was giving him the ability to have both? After a long moment, he replaced his sword.

The spectre nodded, "Go to your rendezvous," he said evenly, "We'll settle our affair afterwards."

The captain nodded gratefully. "Thank you, sir, I am in your debt. I had hoped to kill you in the gutter now, but I would hate to keep the lady waiting…"

"We cannot have that," the shadow clucked sympathetically.

Raoul was about to turn away when he looked up to the heavens and swore again.

"Dieu!" he cried, "I haven't any money to pay for the room. That old crone will insist on being paid in advance. She distrusts me."

_I can't imagine why._ Erik stepped forward once again and placed a large coin in the captain's hand.

"This should cover the price of the room."

He accepted the coin gratefully and reached to shake the dark man's hand in thanks--though he pulled back prematurely, with a shudder, when he touched those icy fingertips.

"Thank you!" he said, "You are a fine fellow! A shame I shall have to kill you…"

"Indeed. There is one condition, though. You must prove to me that I am mistaken in my judgment of you. Take me with you and hide me somewhere where I can see that you are meeting the same woman you say you are."

Raoul shrugged. He thought it an odd request, but he'd heard of stranger things and was not a shy or modest man by any means. He couldn't care less if someone was watching some private moment.

"If you wish," he said jovially, "I know not who you are, monsieur, but let us pretend to be friends tonight. Tomorrow we can kill each other."

"Fair enough," replied the spectre.

* * *


	10. Nightmare realized

_Disclaimer: I own neither Phantom of the Opera nor Notre Dame de Paris. This story is based off of the novels by Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo._

* * *

The old woman looked at the two men curiously. 

One man, whom she knew to be Captain Raoul de Chagny, rented rooms from her often.

The other man, however, was clothed all in black with his head hidden behind a black hood. He seemed to glide more than walk and made no sound. All she could see behind that dark cowl were two glowing, yellow eyes. His very presence filled her with a sense of dread and the superstitious woman was not so inclined to permit the entrance of this demon into her dwelling.

She began to say as much when Raoul produced a large, gold coin and held it in front of the woman's beady eyes. She gave a toothless grin, superstition forgotten, and opened the door for the men to enter.

She was still curious as to the purpose the two men would have together in one of her rooms, but large amounts of money have a strange way of encouraging silence.

"The Sainte-Marthe chamber, please." the captain said.

"I trust you know the way, Monsieur?" she asked, smirking slightly.

The captain was no stranger to this establishment. He had been known to bring ladies here on many occasions. He also managed to stumble here on his own whenever he was too drunk to risk showing his face back home. Raoul de Chagny was, no doubt, a man who lived life to its fullest. He made no apologies and no pretenses to the contrary.

It still did not explain what this other man was doing here.

As Raoul made to climb the ladder to the little room, he turned once more to the whiskered old lady.

"I shall be down shortly to---"

The woman cut him off with a gesture of her wrinkled hand. "I'll tell your young lady to wait here." she assured him.

------------------------------------------------------------

Gautier was bored.

He was at that frustrating age in which a boy is too old to be playing with children but too young to join in the games of men.

_Earlier… _

_As he shuffled past _Eve's Apple_, he stopped and stood on his toes to see in the window. _

_There, several young men gathered around a table, laughing and reveling. Each man had a drink in his hand and pretty courtesans surrounded their table, fetching more drinks and seeing to their other needs. _

_A tall officer reclined with a woman on each knee. He caressed them lazily while his companion, a smaller man dressed strangely in red and yellow, chattered on about some woman and her cat. _

_Oh how Gautier envied them! To be fawned over by beautiful women… to laugh with friends and strangers… playing cards and drinking themselves into oblivion. _

_But how? He could ask to join… but they would say he was too young. _

_How could he convince them he was worthy of their companionship? _

_"Deuce! Pierre, have you any money left?" said the tall man as he stared longingly into his empty mug. _

_"HA!" answered the odd one. "I hadn't any to begin with! Alas… if only the gods--" the man continued on some philosophical rambling that Gautier did not care to understand or remember. _

_He watched as the disappointed girls began to pull away in search of wealthier company and a brilliant idea came to him. _

_Money! The solution was so obvious! These men had to buy their companionship… everyone did. It would not be so wrong if he did the same. All he needed was a bit of coin and he would be readily accepted by the older men. _

_As suddenly as his hopes were raised, they were dashed again. Money. That was one of many things he did not possess in abundance. He walked away, depressed and dejected. Ah well… it was a good idea for a little while. _

Now he sat in the corner of his decaying house, watching his grandmother Falourdel sweep the floor but refusing to help her. Instead he sifted through the pile of ashes on the floor beside him, drawing little designs and moping about his life.

Then he heard a loud knock at the door. His grandmother answered and spoke warily to a couple of men. After a time, she allowed them entrance and led them to the Saint-Marthe chamber. However, before she left, she opened a drawer and set inside a large coin that had been given to her by the patrons.

Gautier's eyes widened. Could life possibly get any better? This was the break he was looking for. He thanked whatever gods he could think of for such a stroke of fortune.

_But how to get it?_

When his grandmother left the room to guide the gentlemen away, he sprang to his feet and ran to the drawer. He removed the coin quickly, not daring to think of the consequences of being caught. As an afterthought, though, he found a dry leaf of approximately the same size and shape and put it in the place of the coin. His dear grandmother's eyesight was failing in her old age and, if he was lucky, he could be long gone by the time she realized the imposter.

------------------------------------------------------------

"Here we are, friend," Raoul said as Erik stepped after him into the room.

The chamber was small and just as dilapidated as the rest of the house. The walls were cracked and the windows were dusty. Cobwebs clung to nearly every corner. The room possessed no furniture, save a bed and small dresser.

The nature of the furniture, irrational as it seems, was enough to make the archdeacon's blood boil. While it was no surprise to him, the confirmation of the captain's intentions made him no less furious.

Raoul, completely oblivious to his companion's turmoil, grinned mischievously and pulled back a loose board, revealing a hole in the wall, just large enough for a man.

"Don't ask how I learned of this place," he laughed. "You may hide in here and wait for me. Then we will settle this dispute once and for all."

The mysterious monk nodded, still saying nothing, and entered the crevice.

There he waited--observing through a knothole--for the captain to return.

------------------------------------------------------------

Christine paced outside the building nervously. As much as she tried to deny it, Pierre's words had disturbed her greatly.

_He loves me… of course he does. I can tell by the way he looks at me. _

_He is engaged. _

_He does not love her. _

_Still, doesn't that say something about his faithfulness? _

_That is just because he was not in love with those other women. It will be different with me. I'm sure of it. _

Suddenly a man cleared his throat. "Do you intend to walk around in circles all night, or do you wish to come inside and greet me properly?"

Christine's eyes widened when she looked up to see the captain leaning against the doorpost and smirking.

"Raoul!" she gasped, "I--ah… well, that is…"

"Your eloquence astounds me, my pet. Do stick to dancing." he teased, "Come along, darling girl. What kind of a gentleman would I be if I allowed you to catch a chill."

Though she looked up briefly, she made no immediate move to come to him. The captain realized that this shy little warbler might need a bit of coaxing. He found he was more than happy to comply.

In general, he held little interest in the chase preceding the conquest. Women fell easily and eagerly into his arms, and he reveled unapologetically in the fact. He seldom needed to do any real pursuing of the opposite sex. Truth be told, those women who proved a challenge to bed were often looking for more than he was willing to commit to. Those women were hardly worth the trouble.

Still, this sweet girl fascinated the officer. It was clear that she was in love with him. She was hesitant… but not impossibly so.

Likely, in her innocence, she was simply nervous.

She was perfect--timid enough that she needed to be pursued, and yet willing enough that the chase would not be difficult. In short, this little creature made him feel like a man… with very little effort on his part. There truly was no better way to stroke the captain's sense of self-worth.

He purposefully took hold of her hand, glancing tenderly at her before leading her inside the old house.

------------------------------------------------------------

There area in which the archdeacon had been hidden away was cramped and oddly shaped. It was too short to rise to his full height, and yet too narrow to sit down comfortably. And so he was left to crouch on his haunches for the maddeningly long time it took the captain to return.

After a few minutes, the muscles in his long legs started to burn in protest. His still-injured ribs were pressed in his hunched position so that they throbbed mercilessly. Erik found himself grateful for the pain; if he concentrated on it hard enough, it would distract his treacherous heart from dwelling on the greater pain that would be inflicted the moment his Christine walked through that door.

After a seemingly endless amount of time, the door creaked open and the heavy boots of the officer thudded inside. They were followed by a pair of kid slippers that stepped lightly across the threshold without making a sound save for the tinkling of the bells tied around the wearers ankles.

Erik's heart began to pound violently in his chest. The rush of blood through his head roared so loudly that he could not manage to hear what the couple was saying. His vision clouded red and then black and, for a moment, he wondered if he would not faint from the stress.

The monk, being no stranger to mental discipline, forced his mind to focus. He pressed his eye against the knothole and struggled to listen to the couple's conversation.

Most of the couple's conversation consisted of those insipid lines--'what are _you_ thinking about?'--or whispered I-love-you's repeated so often as to become a platitude. The average listener might have found these words dull, even annoying. But Erik was not an average listener. Each murmured affection and every shy blush made the muscles in his jaw tick with barely-restrained fury.

When the boy dared to lean forward and kiss her, Erik growled low in his throat. Her expression changed to one of confusion and she looked around the room before settling her gaze in the direction of the priest's hiding place. Had she heard him.

"Raoul… forgive me, but I feel as if what we are doing is not right."

------------------------------------------------------------

_"…I feel as if what we are doing is not right." _

The captain stiffened and drew back to look at the girl in his arms. He had been pursued and pleasured by so many women… yet this was a mystery to him. Never before had he desired someone so much. It was a powerful feeling--to simply look at her and yearn beyond reason.

Cruel Fate! With all the women in the world at his feet, the only one he truly desired was resisting him!

What was it about this woman? It was different when he had seen her in the streets, dancing. Then he had been awed, for sure, but now she was with him alone for the first time. Right now she was _his_. One touch was all he had needed to heat his blood. His stomach clenched and his muscles hardened immediately to the simple action of taking her hand in his. Unheard of!

But why couldn't he kiss her? He touched her… but he wanted to taste her. He held her in his arms… but he wanted to make love to her. Never before had he been so undeniably frustrated with a woman.

"What is not right, my dearest?" he ground out, trying desperately to sound concerned.

Her eyes lowered and the length of her dark lashes case small shadows against her cheeks.

"I am breaking a vow."

A sandy eyebrow winged up, urging her to continue.

"I am betraying my people. If I… well, that is… if we… I shall never find true love! Oh! But I _have _found true love, haven't I Raoul?"

"I'll be honest with you, darling child." he said awkwardly, "I have no idea what you are talking about. However I _do_ know, that you are beautiful and lovely, and I wish for us to be together."

She sighed and smiled slightly. The captain, emboldened by her adoring gaze, smirked and bent to kiss her neck. He felt her tremble and blush under his mouth as he nuzzled her and felt a surge of triumph. _Soon, my pet. Soon. _

Christine's breath became ragged and she felt something stir inside her that she had never known before. It frightened her and she panicked.

Darting nimbly out of the officer's hands, she skirted around the room. She saw the captain clench his fists and was afraid she had angered him.

"Oh, my sweet Raoul, stand up tall so that I can see you."

He gave his most debauched grin as he did as she asked. The child circled him, touching and caressing his armor, clearly in awe of his godlike form.

"Dear Raoul, do you face many dangers being an officer?"

"Every day, my dear. I am the captain, you know."

"How lucky I am to love such a brave man!"

Yes. She was _definitely_ good for his ego.

"What a curious child you are!" he laughed, "Come sit on the bed with me, so I may hold you."

She came to him and he pulled her close. For a few moments, they just lay like that, with her head on his chest and his arms around her waist. It was Christine who finally broke the silence.

"Do you love me, Raoul?"

"Sweet girl! I love you more than anything! I have never loved another as I love you. In fact, I never understood the meaning of love until you entered my life!"

She sighed contentedly and relaxed for a few moments. Then she sat up and looked at him. Instantly, he mourned the loss of her warmth even through the layers of clothing they both wore.

"If you love me," she said nervously, "Then you must instruct me in your religion."

Raoul would have laughed if it had not been for the seriousness of her tone. The look on her face was so vulnerable… as if his answer might crush her.

That unnerved him.

"Why?" he asked cautiously

She blinked. Once. Twice. "So that we may marry!" she replied as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

At the mention of marriage, the captain shot up from the bed.

_Marriage! Of course she would want that! _

_You idiot! You should have thought of that. _

_How do I handle it? What shall I tell her? _

_Well, you could tell her you're as good as married already to that other woman. _

_I think that would be a_ bad_ course of action. Besides, I think she might already know after that incident on the balcony._

_Well… you have to think of _something_. She's waiting for you to answer! _

Sure enough, Christine was gazing up at him, her soft black eyes beginning to glisten as she attempted to hold back the tears that his answer might bring.

The captain forced a laugh. "Marriage? My dear, do two people love each other any more just because they kneel in front of some priest? If anything, that could only lessen their love, from what I've seen. No, no, child. This is best for us… to keep things interesting!"

The thought that her love might lose interest in her was horrifying. Slowly she nodded and a single tear slipped down her cheek.

Immediately the captain was by her side. He kissed her. The kiss was soft--no tongue--but far from chaste. As one hand gently wiped away the tear, the other reached around her and deftly loosened the ties to her bodice. When Christine felt a hand against the bare skin of her back, she jerked away roughly, causing the blouse to fall to the ground.

She covered her chest, breathing rapidly and flushed. Her eyes were wide and darted around the room like a frightened rabbit.

"If you will not marry me…" she trembled, "what do you want?"

Raoul felt the urge to roll his eyes at her innocence. _Really… must I spell it out for you?_

Instead he took another bold step forward, trapping her legs against the edge of the bed.

He leaned in against her ear and said seductively, "Isn't that obvious, my love? I am your slave. I wish to see to your every desire… cater to your every pleasure. Let me do this for you. Do not deny me, precious girl."

She shuddered again and he thought he had finally won. But, then, she pushed back his shoulders and moved back away from the bed.

"I… I do not think I can give you what you are asking for… I am not ready."

He swore under his breath. This woman was trying his patience. If he did not want her so badly, he would be tempted to leave in search of easier prey.

"Alas!" he moaned dramatically, "She does not love me!"

Christine gasped in dismay.

"Never say that!" she cried as she ran to him, the shame of her undress forgotten. "You are breaking my heart! You may say anything you like about me… but never say that I do not love you!"

She flew into his arms and pressed herself against him, stirring his blood further. Finally she said the words he had been working towards all night.

"I am yours, Raoul! Take me! Forget my oath… I will abandon my people for you. And we do not need to marry. I will live only to serve you, and when I grow too old and ugly for you to want me, I will gladly spend the rest of my life toiling as a maid in your house. Thus is the measure of my esteem for you, dear Raoul!"

A wicked glint crossed the man's handsome blue eyes. Lust coiled strong fingers through his veins and he hardened painfully. His mouth descended roughly upon hers, kissing her fiercely and completely. He groaned and panted. He could feel her heart palpitating frantically in her chest.

"I am going to strip you and taste every inch of you" his voice was rough. Again, Christine's anxiety returned and she attempted to push him away… though with less determination this time.

"N-No…" she gasped weakly, pressing against his shoulders.

He chuckled darkly and shook his head. "Too late, love." he growled.

Christine's eyes widened further, if that was possible. Only, this time, she was not looking at the captain. She was looking past him.

Behind Raoul stood a terrifying creature. Half angel, winged and resplendent. And half demon, with a death's head and glowing yellow eyes. The hideous face was further contorted with rage and hatred. In the moonlight, it seemed to glow with a greenish tint.

The Goblin Monk.

Raoul barely had time to quirk an eyebrow at her odd reaction--much less turn around and see what had caught her attention--before he felt a sharp, burning pain shooting through his neck and shoulder. As soon as he registered the pain, his skin felt the wetness of blood spurting quickly from the wound, soaking his tunic. He felt another sting as he turned just enough to see the handle of a long knife still imbedded in his flesh.

"Murder!" he gasped, and then fell to the ground in a bloody heap.

Christine opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. At first, she did not even look at her lover's body on the floor. Her eyes were transfixed by the golden gaze of the mysterious attacker. The spectre extended a bony hand to her, beckoning her to follow him.

She lifted her hand only slightly, as if warring with herself over his silent plea. Then, she ripped her eyes from his--breaking the hypnosis of his gaze almost violently--and looked down at the lifeless form at her feet. The pain and shock… the blood…

She looked back up once again. The ghost… those skeletal fingers… those _eyes_.

Suddenly, her eyes lolled back in her head and she fainted.

However, in that moment between consciousness and blissful oblivion, she felt a sensation of heat on her lips. A burning kiss, so hot that the fiercest branding iron seemed cool in comparison.

Then there was nothingness…

* * *

**Well? Tell me what you think! Are you still reading? I do appreciate your reviews...**


	11. Caught

_Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or Hunchback of Notre Dame. Those stories belong to Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo (respectively). _

* * *

Erik ran. 

His mind was wild and his heart was racing. He could not make out a single coherent thought from his jumble of emotions. His body, charged with adrenaline, took charge and bid him to run. Run hard. Run fast. Run _anywhere_.

He dodged haphazardly through the streets and into the country. Heaven knows how long his flight lasted, but he no longer recognized his surroundings. When his burning lungs and aching joints refused to propel him further, he collapsed onto his knees in an open field.

How had this happened?

How did it all come to this?

From the darkness of his hiding place, he had watched his beloved be seduced by that wretched captain.

The first time she pushed him away, Erik's heart leapt with hope. _That's it. Good girl. She has come to her senses._

But then, as he watched that heartless cad pressure and coerce her further, his fists balled up in fury. Fury at her torment of conscience and fury at the liberties he had begun to take with her.

The child was so beautiful, palpitating and confused, cheeks flushed and dark eyes lowered. Her features were so delightfully contradictory. She was the embodiment of innocence, but radiant with wild sensuality. She was a tiny thing--soft and delicate--but her eyes were full of passion and spirit. A living paradox. Erik was torn with a strong drive to protect her, and an equally strong urge to crush her to him and kiss her senseless.

He wondered if the captain felt the same thing but the hatred spurred by such a thought made the austere priest growl low in his throat. He had to physically stop himself from clawing a hole through the wall and making his presence known prematurely.

Prematurely? For what? What was he waiting for? It was clear what would happen that night. Had he only wanted to see if it was true, he would have had, by now, all the proof he needed. Was he afraid of the captain's sword, lest he interrupt them? Surely not! The tormented monk had greater worries in life than that insolent boy.

In all veracity, he could not say what he was waiting for… just that he knew it was not the time for action.

He could not seem to break his hateful stare.

When the ardent young man removed the dancer's blouse, Erik's veins turned to molten lead. Above the rage and pain, he was feeling an entirely new emotion. Jealousy.

The feeling was so unfamiliar that he almost did not recognize it for what it was. Erik had never felt jealous before. What was there for him to be jealous of? But when the young man pressed his hungry lips to the rounded curve of her shoulder, the priest had glared with the fire of a caged tiger, helpless watching a jackal devour a gazelle.

His chest panted and his head throbbed. He slowly reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew the blade hidden there. When the boy buried his hands in her hair, Erik tested the blade's sharpness against the palm of his hand. It was so razor sharp that he did not even feel the small cut against his hand until it began to bleed. Deadly--just as he expected.

But wait! What had happened then? She pushed him away yet again. He just as good as _told _her he did not love her!

Ah! But the child, in her innocence, could not see the depraved intent of the young man's heart. Erik could practically hear her frantic brain trying to rationalize the rejecting words that accompanied those encouraging caresses. He removed his mask, wiping his brow in frustration. _Must she be so naïve?_

Then came the breaking point. The part of the night when his aching heart and swimming head could stand no more.

The captain, using words he had recited so often to so many women, called the gypsy's love into question. The girl, besotted as she was, returned to the arms of her lover with fervor. She pressed her soft curves and bared chest to the rough embroidery of his doublet and begged him to take her.

Rage and jealousy surged through Erik and he leapt from his hiding place with ghostlike grace, scarcely making a sound that could be heard above the sighs and panting of the lovers before him.

The events that followed were burned into his mind. It happened slowly, as in a dream, but he remembered each detail with precision.

The feel of his dagger slicing through skin and muscle--giving the slightest resistance at first and then nothing. He had plunged the knife so deeply down his victim's neck that he imagined the point piercing the wretched officer's impious heart.

The look on the gypsy's face before she fainted. He had held his hand out to her, willing her to take it. _Would that you had, Christine! _

And then… he couldn't resist. She was so soft and vulnerable. Her skin was luminous in the moonlight. Ethereal. Like an angel. His hands itched to reach out and touch her… just to see if she was as real as he hoped or if she might shimmer away.

Just one kiss… such a heady thought! She had fainted. In her unconsciousness she would never know. But he would have the memory to draw upon again and again in the dark times to follow.

That glorious kiss was his last clear memory of the night. The next few hours were a blur.

He had fled. Out the window, possibly. That would make sense as it was the only reasonable exit. The window overlooked the river. That explains why he was wet and how he survived the fall.

_Where am I?_

His surroundings were unfamiliar but, then, he had no clear destination in mind. He had abandoned his mask and cloak… but he could not go back from them now. He could not stay out in the open, as he was. When daylight hit he would have nothing to shield his hideous face to the public. Back to Notre Dame? To the tower? Possibly. Maybe now he could clear his mind of the gypsy's possession. Perhaps he could return to his research, now that she was not there to distract him.

_What _has_ become of her?_

It had not occurred to him to wonder. Now, though, the possibilities horrified him.

---------------------------------------------------

Stevo rolled his eyes as he saw his strange new comrade weaving awkwardly through the camp. From afar the little man, moving as he was, wearing his red and yellow uniform, could be compared to a monkey. A loud, annoying, rambling monkey. _What does he want _now

"My liege," he man gushed, bowing low to the ground, "O Great and Noble King. I approach you merely as a humble servant. Though I---"

"Oh come off it, Pierre!" snapped the king. "What is it that you want?"

"My wife, sir. She is gone."

"Finally left you, eh?" he chuckled. Stevo knew all about their sham of a marriage. He was just waiting for Christine to come to her senses and realize what an irritant the little man was.

"W-what? No!" the poet sputtered, "Well… I mean… yes. But not in the way you are implying! You see, sir---"

"Out with it, poet! I haven't got all day!"

Pierre took a deep breath and said, "Sir, Christine left quite some time ago. She said she was meeting a man… a captain or something. Anyway, she has not yet returned and I fear something could have happened to her."

Stevo was not pleased by this. "Perhaps she has fallen in love and they have run away together," he suggested. A rather cynical man, himself, he didn't exactly accept that possibility… but he wanted to test the philosopher's knowledge.

Quirking an eyebrow, Pierre shook his head. "I sincerely doubt that, sir. While there is no question as to Christine's feelings--the child is quite smitten with this other man…" He put up his hands as if the king were about to argue, "I know, I know, it is hard to believe, sir, but Christine is not as hopelessly in love with me as you would think. I have come to accept it, though, and so should you."

The king scoffed and folded his arms, impatient and irritated with the monkey-man's discourse. Pierre misunderstood the response for sympathetic indignation over his situation.

He cleared his throat and continued, "Nevertheless, I find it unlikely that this other man, being a captain and a viscomte, would have anything more than a passing interest in a street dancer."

The king nodded, his mind reeling. Though he was loathe to admit it, Pierre was right. Christine was innocent and idealistic. For one so seductive, she had little knowledge of men. He cringed when he thought of all the trouble she could have gotten herself into.

"What is the name of the rascal?" Stevo asked.

"Raoul de Chagny, sir, captain of the king's archers. And if I may say so---"

"You may not!" he snapped, mouth set in a grim line, "Leave now, and find two or three others to help look for her. I am going to pay Chagny a visit."

---------------------------------------------------

Gautier could have kicked himself. How could he be so stupid? To have lost all that money in so short a time…

Excited with his discovery, he had taken the large coin from his grandmother's drawer and scampered off down the street in search of some entertainment.

The evening had started off well enough. He had met some university students at _Eve's Apple_ and gave them a glimpse of his newfound wealth. They had all seemed so impressed, inviting him to join them and even buying him a drink… and another drink… and another.

Not long after (for drinking was not a common habit for the young boy) poor Gautier was feeling quite disoriented. That is when his new friends proposed a game of dice. In less than half an hour, Gautier had gambled away all of his money and his comrades had gone off in search of other prey.

Now he was in the same boat as he was a few hours ago--no money, no friends, nothing to occupy his time. Furthermore, it had begun to rain. He trudged home with a scowl on his face, thinking the day could not get worse.

It could… and it would.

"Hello Grandmother," he mumbled as he entered the old house.

"Gautier!" la Falourdel exclaimed, her white whiskers twitching as her wrinkled face turned to a grin. "I'm glad you are home. Have you eaten?"

"No Grandmother."

"Well, dear boy, I have stew cooking. If you would be a good boy and run over to M. le Brun's and buy us a loaf of bread, I'll have supper waiting for you when you return."

"But it's raining!" he whined.

"Bah! Is that such a problem? You are already soaked, boy, another five minutes shan't kill you. Here, let me fetch you some money."

Gautier winced inwardly and braced himself for her reaction. She shrieked and he cringed.

"What is it, Grandmother?" he asked innocently

The old woman's tiny eyes grew wide and she wrung her hands. "The money! I put it here just a few hours ago. Come over here, boy. Come see. It was just here… and now, look! There remains only a dried leaf in its place!"

"What do you suppose happened?" Gautier wondered cautiously, praying that she had not yet connected him to the crime.

"I'll tell you what happened!" she shouted, "That man… the dark man who came in with Captain de Chagny… he must have enchanted the leaf to look like a coin! I knew it… I knew that awful man was some sort of sorcerer… or worse! Oh my, oh my! I should never have let him into my home! What a foolish woman I am…"

Gautier exhaled. While a part of him felt bad that this other man had incurred his grandmother's wrath, he much preferred that alternative to being on the receiving end himself.

The old woman continued to rant. "Gautier, hurry and go fetch the gendarmes. I am going to give M. de Chagny a piece of my mind!"

In the name of fairness, Gautier did not run for the police just yet. If he took his time then, with any luck, the men could have a chance to escape before the police arrived.

He was just about to step out the door when he heard another scream. Having not expected this one, he bounded up the stairs to see what could have transpired.

"Oh mercy," he gasped.

There, on the floor before him, lay the beautiful dancer, half naked and unconscious. Beside her lay the body of Raoul de Chagny, unmoving and bathed in his own blood.

"Hurry, boy," the grandmother hissed, "To the gendarmes! That gypsy witch has murdered the captain!"

---------------------------------------------------

Christine was finally awakened by the rough handling of the guards. They jerked her to her feet and bound her hands, without so much as letting her adjust her clothing.

She almost fainted again when she saw the captain's body being carried out on a stretcher.

"Raoul!" she cried, attempting to run to him and, instead, stumbling to her knees.

"Up witch!" a burly guard ordered, yanking her roughly into a standing position. "You have done enough here. Did you think you could get away with it? Did you, sorceress? Do you not realize the punishment for stabbing an officer? You will hang for this!"

Any other person would be horrified by his words. Christine, however, did not even hear them. She did not feel them bruising her arms with their fierce grip nor did she see the looks of hatred and disgust on their faces.

Her eyes never left the captain's lifeless body. Her mind echoed naught but one thought.

_Oh Raoul! What has happened to you?…_

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There you have it. Please review!! Also, a special thanks to Elentir for all your help with these chapters. 


	12. The decisions of an unstable mind

_Disclaimer: I own neither Phantom of the Opera nor the Hunchback of Notre Dame. _

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Stevo returned to the Court of Miracles in a pensive state of mind. He wasn't sure what to make of the new information he had just come across and was undecided as to whether he should share it with the others or keep it to himself.

Christine's lover had been attacked. Naturally, she was accused. Stevo, though, had serious doubts as his Christine was not one to take a lover (he had seen to that), neither was she one to actually put that little dagger of hers to use. She was a terrifying little wasp at times, but Stevo really believed she was bluffing about causing another harm.

Following some off-duty officers into a tavern, he gleaned the following information:

With moments of hearing of the incident involving Captain de Chagny, a messenger was sent to fetch a medic. Luckily, one was found quickly and rushed to _la Falourdel's_, arriving almost immediately after the gendarmes had loaded the captain onto a cart for transport.

Upon arriving, the doctor was able to determine that the officer was not indeed dead, but very gravely injured. He immediately set to work to slow the blood loss and stabilize him. The work was tense and everyone was sure that they had lost him but, before long, the doctor was able to look up from his patient and declare him fit to be transported to a better location.

No one could be certain whether or not Raoul would survive this. He might not last the night or he might not last ten minutes. Nobody could say for sure.

Stevo sincerely hoped for the captain's recovery. Christine's passion was the lifeblood of their little tribe and Raoul de Chagny was the one person who could clear her name.

---------------------------------------------

Erik could not say exactly how he got there, but he found himself back in his room in the tower. For the last… undefined amount of time, he had lied there in a semi-conscious stupor--hazy, dreamlike visions flickering through his thoughts one after another.

Christine--for it was always she--dancing in the sunlight with pure joy radiating from her lovely face.

Another time he saw himself holding her close, savoring her scent, her warmth, the feel of her soft against him. They were standing beside an open window but the sun seemed to shine only on her. She smiled up at him and he kissed both her eyelids and her little nose before gently and tenderly claiming her lips.

She was enshrouded in darkness, screaming in pain and begging for mercy. She was pale and dirty and a look of exquisite agony etched across her tearstained face. Each pained gasp was like a blow to his heart. Part of him longed to go to her… but the other part latched onto the anger and hatred that delighted in the torture. Not _her_ torture, mind you, but his from watching her suffer.

He beheld her, for the thousandth time, feinting on the floor beside her fallen captain.

Once more he watched passively--only this time from above, like a bird or angel--as she wearily climbed the steps of the scaffold. The roughness of the rope had left ugly red marks on her bare neck. Her eyes were lowered and she made not a sound. She was barefoot and half-naked--clad only in her shift--and an enormous cloud had gathered to shout condemnation and obscenities. Instead of any rational emotion, Erik found himself raging with possessive anger and jealousy. Here she was, in front of all of those gawking plebian knaves, displayed as she would be for a night of---

She was dressed that same way, once again. However, this time they were alone. She had dressed that way for _him_. The notion brought him supreme happiness--almost more so than the following act she seemed to be promising him. Even as she seductively extended her hand to him, she had shyness in her eyes. Not fear… just shyness. Somehow it made him feel very masculine.

Another dream--she was in bed again… only this time was different. They were in a comfortable little cottage--lived in, but warm, with lots of sunlight. She was disheveled and perspiring. Beautiful. She smiled at him tiredly as she placed a baby into his arms for the first time.

_Where did _that_ thought come from?_

That was the vision that startled him into focus. It disturbed him somehow, as it evoked feelings he could not place. And it has been well determined by now that the archdeacon did _not_ like lack of understanding.

Erik had barely pushed himself to a standing position when he heard a loud pounding at the door. The visitor did not wait for a response, but threw open the heavy door strode in purposefully. Erik, startled by the intrusion, did not even have time to grab a mask and covered his face with his hand in a last-minute gesture of defense.

"Relax, Erik, it is nothing I am unfamiliar with." said a stern, but not unfriendly, voice

Erik reluctantly lowered his hand and met Father Mansart's leveling gaze. The older man looked his friend over and took in his disordered appearance.

"You look awful." he snorted.

"Yes, thank you for that. I was unaware until now." Erik said, scowling as he turned and hunted through his desk for a mask.

"That's not what I meant and you know it. Where have you been? You have been missing for three days!"

"Three days…" Erik whispered, "has it really been so long?"

"What has happened to you? Was it the witch? Is she responsible?"

"You know _nothing_ of her."

"I know she was arrested for stabbing a gendarme. I expect she'll also be tried for witchcraft. An old woman and a boy claim to have witnessed an appearance of the goblin monk in the same room as the gypsy. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you Erik?"

The masked man said nothing. He ran his fingers through his thin strands of hair and sighed brokenly. After a few moments of silence, Mansart realized he was not going to get any information out of the man. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, well then, I expect Master Charmolue will be coming to visit you soon."

"Jacque? What for?"

"Besides the fact that you two seem to have some questionable alchemy experiments going on?" Erik glared but he was not intimidated. He put up his hands defensively, "I'm just saying… you should be careful. You are walking a fine line between the innocent and wicked, my friend. You would do well to remain above reproach. Anyway, I digress… as I was saying… besides all that, I expect he's going to ask you what you want done with the gypsy girl."

For the first time, Father Mansart saw fear cross the eyes of the masked man. He was certain that, were it possible, the man had paled behind his mask.

"What should I tell him?" Erik asked softly, all arrogance abandoned.

The old priest gentled… it shook him to see his friend looking so lost. Even as a child, he had been the picture of composure. This was unsettling, to say the least.

"Do you still believe her a witch?" he asked. Erik nodded.

"Then, my son, I believe you know what must be done." he said gravely.

Erik's breath hitched and Mansart thought he could detect an anguished moan caught faintly in his chest.

"Erik, she has bewitched you. Has she not?"

He nodded.

"You are acting very much unlike yourself. And, as you know, you are not the first of God's men to be trapped in this way. Do you know of another way to break her hold on you?"

He shook his head.

"I am truly sorry for you, my friend," he said honestly, sympathizing--if not understanding--his friend's grief. "If all that you say is true, she is an instrument of Lucifer. Her power over you is strong, but you _must not _give the Devil the victory. Pray for strength, Erik, but do what needs to be done."

When he was left alone with his thoughts, Erik broke down and sobbed. His mentor was right. He would gladly wrap up his soul in a tidy package, hand it over to the Devil and walk joyfully into Hell if it meant he could be near her for a few moments.

This was wrong… it was not supposed to be like this. He knew he had to set things right and return everything to the way it once was... the way it was _before_ she appeared and danced away with his sanity.

Why, then, did he feel like his heart was breaking?

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**A/N: Okay, I know that was short (not to mention I just found a line in here so cornball it made me cringe)... that's just how I ended up breaking it up. Anyway, here's the deal--I am about to go away for a few weeks (tour for school). The next chapter is just about set and ready to go. If I get a bunch of reviews in the next day or two, I'll post the next chapter before I leave... otherwise you'll have to wait a while. Yea... I know its a mean thing to do. Sorry. **


	13. Palais de Justice

_Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. I also do not own the Hunchback of Notre Dame. A small bit of this chapter is going to be directly quoted from Hunchback because, frankly, I know very little about fifteenth century legal-speak. _

Author's note: Well, I suppose five reviews in less than a day is worthy of another update. You think? Anyway, I hope you like it... things are about to get a little rough for Christine. Poor girl.

* * *

Pierre--and the entire Court of Miracles, for that matter--was becoming increasingly anxious with each passing day.

Christine had now been missing for over two weeks and no one seemed to understand her disappearance. Moreover, after three agonizing days of whining for her mistress, Amica also disappeared--thus redoubling his grief.

Truly, whether for pining over the woman or the cat, Pierre had not been the same man since they left.

He would have grown thin over it, had that been possible.

Instead, he walked around like a ghost, caring neither for great literature, nor balancing chairs in his teeth.

He had heard that Christine had killed the officer that she had gone off to meet that day.

Though he would only admit it to himself, the thought was not completely distasteful to him. He knew that woman was dangerous with that weapon of hers. It did something for his masculine pride to know that she had rejected the handsome captain just as she had him.

The other man was simply more foolish than he to not know when to back away.

Still, to actually _kill_ a man… Pierre wasn't aware his little wife had it in her.

Furthermore, why had he heard nothing more than rumors? Surely, if someone had committed so grievous a crime, it would be more public. The country delighted in smoking out witches and sorcerers… surely a gypsy murderer would be a prime candidate.

As he was pondering this, he looked up and saw that a great crowd had congregated at the gates of the Palais de Justice.

"What's going on in there?" he asked a neighbor

"I am not entirely certain as I just arrived, myself," was the response, "it seems that they are prosecuting a witch."

"Do you know whom?"

The man shrugged, "Some woman… I do not know her name. I can only assume there is sorcery about by the number of officials present."

Pierre, whose brilliance could only be overshadowed by his ignorance, had yet to register a rather obvious connection between his recent wonderings and the scene before him.

He did admit, however, that a criminal proceeding would be the ideal platform to cure his depression. As a rule, he found the judges idiotic to the point of absurdity. Unfortunate as it was for the poor accused, it was still worth a good chuckle to the educated bystander.

"Well then!" he exclaimed, slapping his neighbor on the back, "That sounds like just as good a spectacle as any. Let's get to it! What do you say? Shall we go watch the magistrates devour human flesh?"

---------------------------------------------

The courtroom, at this time, was packed with officials and spectators alike. Pierre and his newfound friend had a delightful time poking fun at the crocodiles of the court, garbed in their pompous red and black robes and looking very grave indeed. A large panel of councilors and judges and various officers of the king had assembled for this case--indicative of the magnitude of the crime--and Pierre felt the need to comment on each and every one of them.

He also found himself asking many questions, as he was unfamiliar with each of the offices and their purpose. The only person he did recognize--through their mutual association with the archdeacon--was Master Jacque Charmolue, procurator of the king in the Ecclesiastical Court. Though Pierre had little knowledge of the process of such trials, it did appear that this man held considerable sway in the progression of events.

A hush fell over the crowd, one which Pierre was reluctant to oblige to until he saw that Charmolue had ushered an old woman to the stand. As it seemed evident her deposition was of some importance, he leaned back and listened.

"Messeignuers," she said clearly, "I am La Falourdel and I run the inn in question and have done so for the past forty years. I am but a humble woman, messiegnuers, but honorable--as, in all my years, I have never failed to pay my taxes--and pious. But I am afraid I had been very foolish! You see, my lords, my good friend--the wife of a tanner--had warned me that the goblin monk had been seen, prowling the city, and that I should take care lest he knock at my door. Oh! And I should have been more vigilant! But, alas! I did not heed her warning seriously."

"You see, two men came to my house that night. One was the officer, the other was a man whose face I could not see. He was covered, as a priest, all in black with a hood. All I could see of him were two eyes that glowed like hot coals. They request the Saint-Marthe chamber--my best room--and hand me a crown. I think to myself, 'I shall send my grandson to buy bread for supper later' and shut the coin up in a drawer."

"Let's see… what happened next? Oh yes! I led the two men up to the chamber--but, when my back is turned, the black man vanished! The officer followed me back down again and left. A short while later he returned with a woman. A beautiful girl, sirs, with the complexion of a doll. Still, I am not so blind as to not recognize her as a gypsy. I am slightly put off by this, as I know so many of them are sorcerers, but I say nothing. I think 'I have the crown. That girl is no concern of mine'. That was the right thing to do, wasn't it? I believe it was…" she trailed off, clearly perturbed while the audience nodded softly as if to assure her that she did the only natural thing.

After a moment, her face cleared up and she continued, "Anyway, I left them alone and went back to my own business. A while later, when my grandson returned, I sent him to go buy the bread… but, when I opened the drawer, the coin was no more! Instead I found a dried leaf in its place!"

She paused for effect as the crowd gasped and murmured in horror. Master Charmolue took the leaf from her and held it up for all to see.

He exclaimed, "If that is not proof enough, then I know not what is! However, as you will see, this is not the end to the story."

"Indeed it is not, sir," said the crone, "You see, when I went to the room to confront the men, I passed by a window just long enough to see a black shape plummet into the water below. I looked and saw that it was a phantom dressed as a priest… the moon was bright, my lords, and so I saw it quite plainly. I hastened up to the room and found the captain, lying on the floor with a dagger in his neck. Beside him was the witch, pretending to be dead. And a fine mess it was! I have cleaned that floor for a fortnight and the blood remains, still!"

The president, who realized that the relevant portion of her deposition was done, cut off the woman's rant.

* * *

"It is not looking good for the accused, is it?" Pierre muttered to his neighbor.

"Certainly not," his companion agreed, "The phantom… the dry leaf… it all smacks of magic!"

"No doubt of it." added a third, "Any reasonable individual can be certain that she is a witch who has conjoined with the goblin monk for the purpose of plundering our noble officers."

Pierre wouldn't have taken it _quite_ that far, but he could say nothing as the next part of the proceedings seemed to be continuing.

* * *

"Madame Falourdel," the defender asked, "Which of the two men gave you the crown?"

She looked uneasy, but replied, "The officer, sir."

The crowd murmured and the king's advocate almost visibly winced at the potentially harmful admission. He was not thrown for long, though, as he turned a page in his notebook and addressed the president.

"If I may, gentlemen, draw your attention to the deposition of the officer, taken at his deathbed. If you recall he mentions meeting a dark phantom that may possibly have been the goblin monk. The black man had pressured him to keep his appointment with the accused and even offered him the money with which to pay for the room. If you would turn in your documents to the testimony of Raoul de Chagny----"

At this point the accused, who had heretofore remained silent and passive, sprang to life shouting, "Raoul! Oh Raoul! Tell me, mercy, please… what has become of him? Does he live? If you must kill me, please tell me first whether or not my Raoul lives!"

Pierre, finally recognizing the accused as none other than the gypsy Christine, was horrified beyond compare. Beyond the fact that she was sitting here, on trial for witchcraft, was the rather tragic state she had been reduced to. The girl looked thoroughly miserable, as if all life had been drained from her vivacious little body.

"Silence woman!" cried the president, "That is hardly _your_ concern anymore."

Christine, however, would not be deterred. Ringing her hands until her chains clanked she pleaded again, "Please sir… for pity's sake. Please just tell me if he is alive!"

The king's advocate snorted, disgusted by her obvious display of false upset, and snapped, "He is dying! There, are you satisfied now that you know you have succeeded?"

She did not answer but slumped back down into her seat and sobbed pitifully. The spectators, who only weeks ago worshiped the dancer in the streets, only scoffed callously at her pain.

If Pierre's doubts had been dwindling, they were renewed in full force as the advocate said his next piece.

Flipping through his book of documents he looked up and added, "Though I'm sure you can see it clearly in the evidence yourself, I pray, gentlemen, that you not forget that a dagger was found on the person of the accused when the gendarmes arrested her."

The audience murmured again, not shocked by the statement but, rather, feeling quite justified. Not only was carrying a dagger on one's person illegal, but it seemed to further prove Christine's guilt at having stabbed the captain.

"As we all know, carrying a dagger on one's person is illegal in this city. Since we know that only thieves and vagabonds would stoop to break such a reasonable law, it is clear that she would fit into one of those two categories. And this is not the first of our laws she has willfully broken! She had blatantly disobeyed the order not to dance in the streets!"

This outraged everyone in the room, councilors and spectators alike. Never mind the fact that they, themselves, had been out there, in the streets, watching adoringly and cheering as she danced only a short time ago. No, now that dazzling entertainer was as evil and frightening as a vampire.

Pierre put his face in his hands. Logic like that made his mind reel. This would all be highly amusing if it were not so very serious.

"And so, gentlemen, we have established that she is a repeated law-breaker and a vagabond. Add that to the fact that the captain was stabbed _and_ that she had a knife on her person…" the advocate opened his hands, purposefully trailing off.

Pierre frowned. Besides the court's circular reasoning, something was not right.

_She had a knife on her person. She had a knife on her person._ The sentence echoed through his mind.

Suddenly he remembered la Falourdel's testimony.

_I hastened up to the room and found the captain, lying on the floor with a dagger in his neck. _

…_lying on the floor with a dagger in his neck._

…_a dagger in his _neck

"Wait!" Pierre shouted, "That doesn't make sense! How could she have stabbed the captain when her dagger was still on her person? The attacker left the knife in the victim's throat… but Christine's dagger was still with her. Don't you see?"

The president scowled at the unruly order in the courtroom. "Silence!" he cried, "The spectators shall remain silent or I shall have them thrown out!"

"Is there any more evidence," the president asked in a calmer voice.

In moments, a small wooden cage was produced that held one very agitated feline. It hissed and bristled, making evident its irritation over its confinement.

Pierre paled, recognizing the cat more immediately than he had recognized his wife. _Amica!_

Jacque Charmolue announced in a loud voice, "It has come to our attention, gentlemen, that the accused has also been in possession of this black cat. This, as we all know, is the obvious familiar of a sorceress. As you can see, it practically smacks of the Witches Sabbath!"

"That could be anyone's animal!" Pierre cried, unable to contain himself, "That proves nothing!"

The president, who was red and sweating from frustration, opened his mouth to order the man out. Charmolue, however, simply smirked and opened the wooden cage.

Amica, happy to have found her mistress after so much time, leapt from the box and ran straight into Christine's lap, rubbing her spine against the young woman's arm and mewing happily.

Pierre felt his previous melancholy and overall hopelessness return tenfold.

Christine, for her part, did not seem to notice. Amica continued to rub herself against her, receiving not so much as a glance in return from her mistress.

At last the president addressed the accused. "Girl! You are of the Bohemian race, addicted to the deeds of witchcraft. You, during the night of the twenty-ninth of March last, murdered and stabbed, in concert with the powers of darkness, by the aid of charms and underhand practices, a captain of the king's archers of the watch, Raoul de Chagny. Do you persist in denying it?"

Christine did not raise her head to look at her accuser. Instead she wept into her hands, repeating "Oh, my Raoul!" again and again.

"Do you deny it?" he asked again, summoning an officer to shake her from her stupor.

"Do I deny it?" she repeated coldly, her dead eyes igniting in an angry glare. She stood and looked at all the men in the room as her passion and vitality was momentarily restored to her.

"Of course I deny it!" she cried, "I love Raoul with everything I am! I would die before hurting him."

"Then how do you explain the evidence against you?"

"I told you--I do not know!" Then her voice softened and she put her hand to her temple, trying to explain, "It was a priest… a man whose name I do not know… an infernal priest who has been following me."

"You see!" answered the judge, "She admits to it. The goblin monk has been in her presence!"

On opposite sides of the room, both she and Pierre exhaled sighs of frustration.

"Please, sirs," she said, "have mercy. I am nothing more than a poor girl---"

"You mean a _gypsy_!"

She was about to answer when Master Jacque Charmolue interjected.

"In view of the obstinacy of the accused," he said evenly, "I demand the application of torture."

"Granted," said the president.

The gypsy, the poet, and yet another grew excessively pale.

* * *


	14. Confessions of an innocent

_Disclaimer: I own neither Phantom of the Opera, nor The Hunchback of Notre Dame. For the record, some parts of this chapter are direct quotes from Hunchback. You see, I have assessed my strenghts and decided that 15th century legal-speak is not one of them. Alas... but, what are you going to do?_

**A/N: You know, it's good to be back. The tour was fun but _really_ hard. I played something like 21 concerts in 16 days... all the while I traveled through 6 states and 2 Canadian provinces. All the while I kept thinking 'gee, I'd so much rather be back at home writing silly little stories so that people I've never met will review them'. Really, I actually was. Now I'm ready to sleep for a week. Anyway, here's another chapter. I hope you enjoy it.**

**Oh yea, Elentir--if you are out there, will you please email me? I've tried writing to you but everything gets bounced back. **

* * *

The descent through the dark corridors was mostly a blur to Christine, whose mind was whirring with more fears and questions than she had ever known in her life. Occasionally, though, she registered that her steps must have faltered because one of the massive guards would yank her roughly by the arm, causing her to stumble and nearly fall a couple of times. 

When the group reached their destination a part of her faculties returned to clarity and, as her eyes desperately worked to adjust to the dark, her mind frantically tried to put her jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order.

_Where am I? _

_A dungeon… _

_No, not a dungeon… look around… bars… chains… all those frightening instruments. Look at the angry fire burning in the corner and the rough man who tends it._

_A torture chamber! _she concluded, memories becoming clear._ That is where I am!_

_What are they going to do to me? _

_They want you to confess… don't you remember?_

_I remember. But I did nothing wrong! Why is all this happening to me?_

_Dwelling on that just now is not going to help you--haven't you noticed that no one here believes you? _

_Look around. There are others here… who are they?_

_Not other prisoners… these men are among the circle that brought me here. _

_Look around. Who do you see? You do you recognize?_

_To the left… reclining on that chair… that, I believe, is… _(here she shuddered)…_ Pierrat Torterue--the official torturer. Those other two must be his underlings, _she added when she noticed two other brawny individuals, raking frightening iron implements across the hot coals.

_To the right… I see some officials… some priests… all those who followed me in here from the court. In the corner is the clerk with his notepad. _

She flicked her head back to face forward and started when she saw Master Jacques Charmolue standing far closer than she would have liked, with a too-sweet smile on his face. His mannerisms were gentle and kind but, at the same time, gave her the inclination that he would do whatever it took to gain his confession and carry no regrets.

"My dear child," he said softly, "do you persist in your denial?"

Christine swallowed hard. "Yes," she answered, voice quivering though she tried to sound brave.

He shook his head sadly. "In that case, my dear, I am afraid we shall have to be more persuasive in our questioning. Please take a seat on the bed."

Up until now, Christine had done all she could to summon up whatever courage she had in her. It all disappeared, however, when her eyes rested upon the terrifying leather bed upon which she had been bid to sit. With a whimpering cry, she sank to the floor.

Again Master Jacques shook his head with an almost fatherly disappointment. He nodded to two of the guards who, with surprising tenderness, lifted the trembling soul and placed her upon the bed in which so many wretches had writhed and screamed before her.

With wide eyes, she looked again to her right and to her left, surveying her surroundings. Suddenly, it seemed, the room was growing smaller and the circle of men were closing in on her. All around her were the most hideous of instruments… horrifying implements meant to burn, pinch, and tear until the victim capitulated and begged for death.

Her breath came out in shallow bursts as she wondered which method would be employed upon her first. Would she be able to take it? The mere thought terrified her… could she withstand the pain without betraying herself?

_Yes,_ she decided. _I will withstand it. For Raoul I will… I must. I love him with all my heart. I would never harm my beloved Raoul and no amount of intimidation will make me say that I did…_

Oh, but she was so terribly mistaken.

"Where is the physician?" Master Jacques asked.

"Here," replied a solemn voice. Her head whirled around to see a man, in a black robe, whom she had not noticed before.

_Where did he come from?_ she wondered. The man's eyes seemed to glow and something about his voice made her shudder. It was not right that this voice could display such a hypnotic quality when she had heard but one word. It was an almost ethereal voice and it unnerved her.

Christine's attention was brought back before her when Master Jacques spoke yet again. "For the third time, mademoiselle, do you persist in denying the deeds of which you are accused?"

She returned her gaze to the physician, unable to break away from him even as the questioner spoke. All she could manage for an answer this time was a subtle nod of her head.

"Then I must fulfill my office." he said with finality. To the torturer he turned and, after a moment of contemplation, said, "Master Pierrat, I should like to begin with the boot."

At this time both the torturer and the physician stepped forward. The assistants fumbled about in their arsenal of tools before approaching the quivering girl with a heavy metal case and some miscellaneous screws and ties. One lay the apparatus out before the table while the other undressed her and strapped her hands and waist with leather ties that hung from the ceiling.

Pierrat frowned when he bared the girl's delicate leg and tiny white foot. "So beautiful," he muttered to himself, "'Tis a shame!"

For a moment, Christine went limp, allowing the men to handle and bend her without resistance. However, when she looked down to see her leg completely incased in thick metal her fright restored her strength. She screamed and thrashed madly, demanding they take it off.

Every soul should have twisted at the poor girl's appeals--so heart-wrenching and pitiful were her pleas--but her judges were unmoved.

She drew her gaze back up to the physician. For some reason, though she could not say why, she cursed him more than the others at that moment. When she stared into those eyes, she felt like they were the only two people in the room and all her emotion was directed solely at him.

How could he stand there and let this happen with nothing more than cool indifference?

Through her terror-blurred vision, however, she did not see that her physician was indeed shaking like a leaf, breath ragged and tears coursing down his face.

"For the last time, do you confess the facts in this case?" Charmolue asked, that same deceptively benign smile on his face.

_Stop asking me that!_ her mind screamed. At that moment she felt so abandoned by God and man… her mind issued a prayer toward the dark physician, with whom it had latched on to a twisted sort of kinship. _Whoever you are… be you angel or devil or something in between… I beg you to deliver me from this. _

The glowing eyes flickered closed for a moment as if registering the plea in her frantic gaze. The black form, however, approached her no further.

"I tell you the truth!" she said, to the physician rather than the questioner, "I am innocent."

"Then how do you explain the evidence against you?"

"I have told you--I do not know."

"Proceed," Charmolue said to the torturer. With a curt nod, Pierrat cranked hard on the handle of the screw-jack, tightening the boot.

Christine had told herself that, as a dancer, she knew of pain. She was determined to withstand any and all tortures in the name of her love. Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the pain that washed over her as the screw was tightened.

Plates from inside the boot tightened from all directions, making her feel as if her bones were, not breaking, but literally _crushing_ under the pressure.

Later, she would curse her weakness. A creature who had known only joy and sweetness, she had not been able to calculate her strength against the torture.

But there was no thought of self-pity in her head at the moment. Her only recognition was pain. Blinding, maddening pain.

Her sweet voice expelled a scream so pitiful and so full of suffering that some of the officers had to cover their ears. Another anguished cry rang out somewhere in the room but, with their ears covered, no one seemed to notice.

Jacques Charmolue, whose smile had not faltered throughout the ordeal, asked again in a louder voice (not out of anger but, rather, to be heard above the screams), "Do you confess?"

"All!" the girl cried, "Mercy! I confess to all!"

"I must warn you," he continued as the prisoner weakly fought against the boot, which had still not been loosened, "that you confession will result in a death sentence."

"I certainly hope so!" she cried, falling limply back upon the leather bed.

Her voice lowered to a whisper as she kept repeating "Mercy… mercy… just let me die…"

She grew quieter until she seemed to be asleep. The physician stepped forward, resting his hand against her perspiring brow.

"Hold up, fair one," he murmured, using one hand to untie her belt while the other reached behind her neck to raise her up, all the while his mesmerizing voice drawing her from her faint. "Courage, little lamb, it is almost over."

Meanwhile, the clerk with the inkhorn had been summoned forward to take down the prisoner's confession.

"Young Bohemian maid, you confess your participation in the feasts, witches' sabbaths, and witchcrafts of hell, with ghosts, hags, and vampires? Answer."

"Yes." she replied in a raspy voice.

"You confess to having seen the ram which Beelzebub causes to appear in the clouds to call together the witches' sabbath, and which is beheld by sorcerers alone?"

"Yes." she answered again.

The questioning continued as they charged her with everything from devil worship to prostitution. To each accusation she answered the affirmative. With each response, her voice became more hollow and dead until it was hardly recognizable as human.

"Lastly, you avow and confess to having, with the aid of the demon, and of the phantom vulgarly known as the goblin monk, on the night of the twenty-ninth of March last, murdered and assassinated a captain named Raoul de Chagny?"

She sobbed pitifully but nodded.

"You must answer, girl!" the questioner insisted.

"Yes." she breathed, utterly broken.

Satisfied with her compliance, Charmolue nodded to the torturer, who began unfastening the boot from the poor child's leg.

Then he examined the swollen appendage, ignoring the growl emanating from the physician behind him. He said, in a voice that was once again gentle, "Come now, my beauty, there's no harm done. You were good to cry out when you did. See? You could still dance again!"

Charmolue then turned to the other officials and, in a formal voice declared, "Behold justice enlightened at last! This is a solace, gentlemen. Mademoiselle will bear us witness that we have acted with all possible gentleness."

He beckoned the girl to rise from the table. However, the moment she put weight on her injured limb, she collapsed with a gasp of pain. Instantly, the dark physician was at her side, swooping her up into his arms before she could hit the floor.

One of the guards moved to take the girl from him but he shook the other man off, saying casually, "'Tis no trouble, noble guard, she is but a tiny thing. I'll take her to the courtroom myself."

Christine's mind was once again cloudy. Part of her wanted to scream and pound against the man holding her… the man who stood by and watched this happen… the man who, for some reason she could not justify, blamed for her suffering.

Still, there comes a time in the course of human suffering when one reaches a point of such undiluted misery that any comfort--even from an enemy--is welcomed with open arms.

For this reason, she clung to the dark man.

His hands were cold and bony, but the rest of him burned as if with a fever. She buried her face in his neck, soaking up his warmth. In this she vaguely registered something cold and hard pressed against her forehead. However, she paid it no heed as she shivered in his arms, gratefully accepting the soothing sounds he made for her ears alone.

* * *

**Well, there you have it. In the next chapter, we'll hear a little more from Erik. Oh yea... for those of you who are hoping for a spunky Christine, you are not going to get it in this story. I hope that's not too disappointing. Think of it this way though... she's not quite sixteen, alone, betrayed by everyone, and facing torture with no idea why. How brave can you be? If you are looking for someone a little more bold, try reading my other EC story. She's pretty feisty. **


	15. The benefit of underground power

* * *

After their return from the 'Questioning Room', the court proceedings were uneventful and predictable.

That is not to say that they were unmemorable.

On the contrary, Erik remembered every last, painful detail. From the moment he set her trembling form back into her chair, to the part where the Master Charmolue read, once again, the long list of charges against her--with conspicuously absent protest of the girl's own advocate--to the point in time where the president rose and gave a lengthy oration in Latin, explaining and sealing her fate.

Did she even understand what he said?

Did the child even comprehend that she was found guilty of all charges… sentenced to walk--stripped of all but her shift--up the stairs of Notre Dame to give penance, only to be taken to the Place de Grève and hung?

He doubted it. It seemed rather ridiculous that they would explain everything in a language the uneducated offender could not understand. But, alas, that was just the way of things.

Perhaps it was for the best. They had not given a specific time frame in which to carry out the punishment. Likely, Master Charmolue was going to consult him on that particular detail--the benefit of having so much underground political sway.

It could be weeks or months… even more, if he wished it. Perhaps it would be better that she not be sitting in her cell, wondering with each passing hour if this was the moment when her life would end.

Why did he care so much about her frame of mind anyway? By all reason, he should let her suffer and fret. It would serve her right for bewitching him in such a despicable manner.

_But hasn't she suffered enough, Erik? And at your own hand, no less! She is only a child!_

_She is not a child. She is a woman and a witch. The maledictions that have befallen her are of her own doing. _

_Are you honestly saying you don't care about her suffering?_

_I suppose…_

_Then why did you go to her trial? Forget her pain for a moment… think of the suffering you have brought on yourself!_

As he peeled the bloody shirt off his torn skin, he hissed. His conscience was undeniably right, which confused him all the more.

As much as he had wanted to see the witch punished for her crimes, the trial had been ultimately more torturous for him than it had been for her.

At first he hadn't even wanted to go. He prayed fervently that her absence from the street would erase this horrible memory from his mind.

Wishful thinking and nothing more, so it turned out.

If anything, his awareness of her only heightened in her absence. Every voice seemed to whisper her name, every ray of light bore her reflection. His dreams were plagued, not with lust-filled fantasies, but of images of that terrible night and foreboding visions of the gallows.

Once again teetering on the precipice of madness, he consulted his books. Ah, his first love! Surely they would never steer him wrong.

They had been extremely helpful--as it turned out--as he found a case in which a sorceress had enchanted another man. He was cured when the witch was burned.

It was then that he decided to attend the trial. It was a brilliant plan… he would see her presented for what she was--a witch; she would be tried and condemned accordingly and his weary mind could have some closure.

_Oh! But you didn't count on torture, did you?_

Erik's mind had not been clear enough at the time to accurately judge what he had been thinking. Perhaps he thought she would have admitted to bewitching him--then he would know for sure of the devil's hand in his madness… at least he would know his hatred was warranted.

But she hadn't confessed. She sat silent and bewildered as a lamb. Damned girl!

His carefully constructed plan had failed and his world was once again spiraling out of his control.

When they had authorized the application of torture, he thought he would die right there. Alas, the universe is not always so gracious.

He knew about torture--he had ordered it used against other magicians again and again. Suddenly thoughts of those tearing claws and burning pincers entered his mind, ripping apart the beautiful girl from all directions…

And so, he followed her. At the last minute he had relieved the attending physician--his knowledge of medicine being far superior to that of any court doctor--and accompanied the party into the Questioning Room.

The knife beneath his robes was a blessed distraction. He held it tightly to his chest, taking a surprising sense of power from its sharpness.

As long as he held that blade he still had control. At any moment he could end his life and leave all this behind.

But the sight of her… oh, the sight of her fragile little frame being bared by those rough hands. Her heart-wrenching sobs… her weakened protests… it was too much to bear! He pressed the blade harder. _It's still there… _

Then they brought forth 'the boot'. That hideous piece of wood and metal… that ferocious beast that devoured her shapely leg and delicate foot. He began to feel the blade cut into his flesh, reminding him of its presence. _Still there…_ _keep control…_

When she had stared into his eyes… he could sense the prayer in that one look.

She was pleading with him. _Help me!_ He could feel it… she needed _him_ to save her.

Did she recognize him? She seemed to look to him directly. Was it truly him she wanted… or was he just a convenient presence?

His mind told him it was a witch's trick, but his body trembled with grief, all the same.

The look of pain and betrayal that followed was palpable. His hand raked the knife's edge again and again across his chest. _It's still there…_ he assured himself, _you still have the knife… you are still in control. It's still there…_

When she cried out in pain, he thrust the dagger into his side--some twisted part of his brain wishing that, by inflicting pain on himself, he could somehow lessen hers. He cried out with her, nearly doubling over in agony but grateful for the distraction, all the same.

His eyes fixed on hers once again, but this time it was _he_ that was pleading. _Confess, Christine! End this… please! _

He could not endure another minute. If she cried out even one more time, he was sure the blade would have found its way into his heart.

He could have killed himself--and would have--and left her to face her fate alone. But she… _she_ had the power to end _both_ their suffering.

_She's always had that power_, Erik thought. Although, sometimes he wondered if she even knew it.

But, this time, she'd shown mercy. At the brink when both the wretched individuals could stand no more, she relented. She confessed all.

She confessed… but the wash of relief and freedom that he expected was not there. She just _admitted_ to being a witch! Why did he not feel joyous inside?

If anything, he was more in her clutches now than he was before.

No thoughts of happiness or satisfaction crossed the masked man's consciousness at that moment. His only coherent thoughts were of her well-being. Was she badly hurt? How much pain was she still in? Could she walk? Was it permanent? He could no longer hold back and, using his right and authority as physician, approached her.

That was the first time she welcomed his touch--there in the torture chamber. He doubted she recognized him, but the effect was all the same. He was not a disgusting monster or a murderer or a _thing_. He was the one she trusted. He was the one friendly voice--and touch--in the room.

As she confessed, one by one, to each charge, he laid his cold palm on her burning forehead and whispered encouragements in her ear. She leaned on him for support as he carefully released the large, leather restraints.

He resisted the urge to strangle Master Jacques when he took hold of her swollen limb, running his hands along her bared leg to 'examine' it. Then the idiot had the audacity to bid her to stand and walk in that condition. Erik knew she would fall--he had seen what that infernal boot could do to an appendage--and was beside her, waiting to catch her.

In retrospect, he should have handed her to the guard and left the building. He should have washed his hands of the whole ordeal and fled the city until it was over. As long as she survived, neither of them could have any peace.

But, once she was in his arms, he found himself unable to give her up.

She was so trusting… so _innocent_. Yes, he would now deign to use the description even if she _was_ a gypsy. It might all be an act--and the logical side of him still insisted that it was--but it was such a cleverly constructed act that he did not feel unworthy to have fallen for it.

A knock issued from the other side of his chamber door. After throwing a robe on to cover his shredded chest, he bid the caller 'enter'.

"Greetings, Master Jacques." he said with a patronizing air. Erik had long since perfected the skills of manipulating certain people. "What brings you here this evening?"

"Good day, master--several things, actually. First, I thought I'd give you an update on the prisoner we arrested."

Erik's breath hitched slightly. He was not sure if he was ready to talk about this. Forcing an impatient motion, he waved the other man to continue.

"Which prisoner?" he stammered.

"You remember--Marc Cenaine--the one you suspected of using magic. We arrested him a few weeks ago."

Erik released the breath he had been holding and suppressed a grin from the relief he was suddenly feeling.

"Oh yes? And how is the trial progressing? Has he confessed? Has the torture been successful?"

"Alas, no." he answered regretfully, "I don't understand it, master. Nothing we have yet applied has moved him. The man is a stone!" then he added, "But rest assured, sir, that we will stop at nothing to get to the truth. Yesterday all of the joints in his left hand were dislocated and, if he persists, tonight we shall begin on his right."

The masked man shuddered. Never before had the idea of torture affected him. It was merely a means of getting at the truth. However, now when he thought of it, he could only picture his poor Christine in the place of Cenaine… _her _lovely hands being destroyed rather than his. Erik would thank the heaven's every day that she had succumbed as quickly as she had.

As if reading his mind, Charmolue said, "Oh, but you will be pleased to know that the gypsy girl… the witch who attacked the captain of the king's archers... pretty little thing, she is… _she_ had confessed quite readily."

Erik knew what he was going to ask next. He'd want to know if Erik had any suggestions before she was put to death. That, for certain, was not a question he was willing to answer just yet.

Steering the subject towards a more comfortable aspect of the trial, he interrupted, "Yes, yes. That's all well and good. But, back to Cenaine… have you found anything of use in his home?"

"Ah! I was hoping you'd ask that." he said as he fumbled through his bag. He pulled out a folded piece of parchment and handed it to the masked man. "We found this among his things… I suspect it is useful, but it is in a language that none of us can read!"

Erik rolled his eyes as he took the parchment. After giving it a glance-over, he murmured, "It is useful indeed. Everything written here is pure magic. Master Jacques--a man in your position should not even have this parchment in your possession! Satan's words practically leap off the page! This man is surely an alchemist and a magician. You must continue to press him for a confession."

In truth, the parchment proved nothing except that Marc Cenaine was an imbecile who knew a little Hebrew. The man's real offense was attempting to blackmail the archdeacon with knowledge of one of his darker experiments in the pursuit of science. He thrust the offending scroll back at the other man who scrambled to hide it, once again, in his bag.

In a low voice, Erik then asked, "And might I ask how you are succeeding in your own endeavor?"

Charmolue shook his head in frustration. "I have tried again and again to make gold and all I've managed to get is ashes. I fear you were right, master… I have no hope of success unless I can find the philosopher's stone."

He nodded gravely. "Perhaps you will bring back your formulas next time and I will look over them with you again."

"That would be most kind of you, master."

They discussed some more specifics of his alchemy experiments before agreeing to meet at a later date. Then, just as he was leaving, he remembered his other purpose for coming.

"Oh, master! I nearly forgot! What do you wish for me to do with the little sorceress?"

Erik sighed. He had been waiting for this. "She has been sentenced, has she not?"

"That she has, sir. But I have convinced the officials to postpone setting a date of execution. I thought… well… I thought you might have something to say in that regard."

The word 'execution' was suddenly a hard one for him to swallow. Once he could trust his voice to be steady, he answered, "Do nothing for now and await my instructions. For now you must concentrate your energy on Marc Cenaine."

"A wise decision, my master. I shall see to it."

Erik merely nodded and the shorter man took his cue to leave.

His answer had been a good one, he decided, for it would buy him time.

Time was good--she would stay where she was for the time being. Erik had some things he needed to sort out with himself first. Then he would pay a visit to the little gypsy girl.

_After that... who knows?_

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! Thanks even more for reviewing. Stay tuned next time--Christine and Erik have a long awaited discussion.**

**Chantal--Well, you caught me. I knew of the discrepency when I posted the chapter but I was hoping nobody would notice. I have now gone back and gotten rid of all the incongruities (I hope!) in regards to knife placement. Feel free to let me know if I'm forgetting something else...**


	16. Abandon all hope

Disclaimer: I own neither The Hunchback of Notre Dame, nor The Phantom of the Opera. Those books belong to Victor Hugo and Gaston Leroux (respectively)

Note: Well, this chapter turned out to be really long so I split it in two. You should review if you want the rest of it. Enjoy!

* * *

Like all the great buildings at the time, the prisons extended just as far underground as above it. When he reached the Palais de Justice, a guard was summoned to escort Erik into the dungeons. 

He graciously accepted the man's guidance though, in reality, he did not need the assistance. Erik felt oddly comfortable in the darkness of the cellars. His cat-like eyes were adept at seeing when there was no light to see by and his muscles and quick reflexes gave him a sure-footed sort of balance. One might say that he was a creature more suited for the darkness than the light.

He would not disagree with the assessment… though he sometimes wished to.

As he followed the burly man in front of him, he took his time to glance around. Erik had only been to the prisons a handful of times--as he rarely had cause to do so--and he always found it fascinating. While another man might have felt intimidated in such threatening surroundings, his scholarly mind reveled in the architecture and history of the structure.

As with most young scholars, Erik had studied extensively _The Divine Comedy_. Even at such a young age, Erik had taken an immediate interest with the _Inferno_. On his first trip to the prisons, he found himself wondering if it was not a place like this that inspired Dante's vision of Hell. Such were the daydreams of the masked boy.

Now, however, Erik had a different sort of contemplation. His mind was not so consumed with the prison as he was with the prisoners… or _one_ prisoner, to be exact.

As they spiraled down into the earth, they passed through levels of cells, separated in relation to the degree of the crime and the status of the prisoner. The lesser the crime and the wealthier the criminal, the more comforts the cell would possess.

As they passed the first row of cells, Erik glanced inside--bed, chair, desk… it was sparse, undoubtedly, but not unlike his own room in the monastery. A human being needed very little to survive, Erik had decided, and a bedroom required little more than a place to sleep. It was in his work-room in the cathedral's tower that he kept his real treasures.

The further down they went indicated the gravity of the crime. The next set of cells had only a bed. The next, only a pile of straw. As they journeyed deeper, the air became noticeably colder, the walls wetter, and the misery more tangible.

Finally, buried deep in the ground, the men reached their destination. This was it: the final level.

Dante describes an inscription outside the gates of Hell:

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'intrate---Abandon all hope, ye who enter.

Without a doubt, the phrase fit here. This, the lowest level, was little more than pit--a dark cave where only those condemned to death were cast. 'Abandon all hope' was literal here. There was no hope of escape, of air, of light, of warmth… of _life_. It was nothing more than a meager and miserable existence in which the only hope came from the gallows or the stake. The guards here kept the prisoner on the cusp of life unless, by order or by accident, the poor wretch was forgotten and left to rot.

This is where Erik would find his Christine.

"This is it, sir." said the guard, "Are you alright to go in by yourself?"

He nodded curtly to the guard, who unlocked the room and stepped to the side.

Giving in to a boyish whim, Erik cast a quick glance at the doorframe, wondering foolishly if Dante's inscription would be here as well. When it wasn't, he shook his head gave a wry smile.

"It matters not," he chuckled darkly, "I abandoned that long ago."

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"Brother, I demand you let me out of this bed!"

The doctors were pleased to report that Raoul was recovering nicely at his brother's home just outside Paris. As expected, Comte Philippe de Chagny spared no expense in caring for his younger brother. His healing had been slow and uncertain at first, but after several weeks of bed-rest and constant attention, the doctors seemed convinced that he would make a full recovery.

That is not to say that he would make a _fast_ recovery.

On the contrary, the brutality of the attack and the location of the wound had left Raoul very weak indeed. Still, the family was counting themselves blessed that the captain had developed neither infection nor pneumonia.

Raoul, however--who was used to being active and commanding--was not considering himself so blessed.

The Comte smiled patronizingly at his brother's tantrum. "You're in luck then," he said cheerily, "as I must go away soon and will be unable to oversee your care."

The brother scoffed when he heard the words 'oversee your care'. "Why do I get the distinct impression that your absence will not make me as happy as it should?"

Philippe chuckled at the young man's antics. His childish behavior, while usually inappropriate and ungentlemanly, could actually be quite amusing on occasion.

"Because, brother," he said lightly, "a carriage will be arriving within the hour to transport you to the Gaundelaurier residence. Your fiancée, Fleur-de-Lys, has been most concerned for your well-being. When I suggest the arrangement to her mother, the woman was more than happy to oblige." then, with a grin, he added, "Besides, brother, I'm sure hers is a much lovelier face to have to look upon every day than my own."

Raoul scowled. "When I am well, brother, you must remind me to challenge you to a duel."

"I shall put it on my schedule," he teased back as he left the room.

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"Oh Raoul…" Christine whispered for the hundredth time. It was all she whispered, actually… all she thought of. All other thoughts were useless…

How long had she been locked away here, anyway?

It was impossible to say. That was the worst part about the dungeons. Down here, without any light or sound or hint of human contact… time had lost all meaning. It could have been a day just as easily as a year.

If she had to guess, though, she'd say that it had been more than a week but less than a month. Food was occasionally passed to her through a door that allowed no light---but it was done so at irregular intervals so it was impossible to judge time based on her meals. Christine could not be certain whether this was done on purpose, to add to her discomfort, or if she was just being forgotten about.

In the end, she supposed, it didn't really matter.

There _was_ water dripping at regular intervals. Every few seconds a drop would fall from a crack in the ceiling into a gathering puddle of murky water on the ground. For a time, she had amused herself by counting the drops, hoping that would give her some grasp of the passage of time. She had given up hope of that long ago, though. It was a useless waste of energy, anyway.

Useless. Everything was useless. There was no hope here… time was meaningless. No time… no hope… only misery and suffering.

It was hard to form coherent thoughts. She sensed that it was cold… very much so… but she no longer had the strength to shiver. She alternated between huddling in a corner, trying to conserve her own body heat, and pacing the length of the room, trying to warm her blood.

There was no way to win. If she moved, she risked sweating and becoming more chilled. If she stayed, the slimy and furry creatures of the darkness moved over her, trying to nibble at her skin.

A few times during her stay here, pure exhaustion prompted her to sleep. That was a sorry mistake each time. The air was too cold, the ground to uncomfortable…

And… that… infernal… _dripping_…

"Agh!" Christine growled in frustration, stamping her foot in the puddle of water. Immediately she regretted her decision as a creature darted from the muck and across her foot, the resulting splash soaked her dress, leaving her even more sensitive to the cold air. _Useless… hopeless…_

The dripping had become a maddening sound. She believed that her thoughts of Raoul would sustain her… she tried to daydream or remember… but that hated water dripping--it seemed louder and louder each second--would jerk her violently from any lingering thought. And so she did the only thing she could… she whispered his name to herself.

"My Raoul…"

No thoughts, no stories, no memories… just a name… it was her only link to the outside world and it was the only thought she could manage anymore.

Suddenly there came a loud sound. Her head jerked up as a door slowly opened. At first she thought it might be the jailer with food, but she was surprised to see a dim ray of light through the cracks of the opening door.

Though it was dim, Christine was so unaccustomed to lighting that she had to shut her eyes against the meager lantern that burned through the cracks in the door.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw the outline of a man setting the lantern on the ground away from her.

For some time, neither spoke. The two just stared at each other, both trying to form their own words.

Christine spoke first. She didn't know what made her say what she said… perhaps it was the way the stranger's robes gave him a winged appearance… perhaps it was the way the lantern seemed to set his form aflame without revealing any of his features… perhaps it was the way his yellow eyes burned intensely--as if they were lanterns of their own accord. Or, perhaps it was a combination thereof.

Nevertheless, when she spoke, she said, "Are you an angel?"

The response was a dark chuckle that made her shudder. "Hardly."

"Who, then?"

"A priest."

Another silence ensued. Christine was so unused to the presence of another that she barely knew what to say. Furthermore, something about the man's voice unnerved her. It was familiar… but she couldn't remember why… so many memories of life were fading. There were times when she could not remember her own name.

Erik (for the astute reader has already recognized the strange visitor) was shocked for his own reasons. In all his imaginings of this moment… all his preparation… nothing readied him for what he saw. The lively girl he had so long obsessed over was gone, replaced by a broken shell with pale, bluish skin and dead eyes. He cleared his throat; it was time to move his plan forward.

"Are you prepared?"

"For what?"

"To die."

Christine gasped slightly at his words, but not in the disappointed way as one might have expected.

"Will it be soon, then?"

"Tomorrow."

Her entire countenance sank then and her shoulders sagged. Looking into the puddle of muddy water, she whispered more to herself, "Oh… that is a very long time from now… I thought you meant to do it today."

Her pitiful words and the dejection in her face wiped all plans of remaining abstract and business-like from his thoughts.

"Are you very miserable here?" he asked softly.

For a second, Christine merely looked at him. There was a time in her life when she would have had some witty or snide sort of answer for such an obvious question, but those days were no more. Instead, she began to cry.

"I am very cold."

Erik was disgusted as he looked around. These prisons… devoid of all light or fire. The prisoner… huddled and trembling on the damp ground, puddles of water all around her. She was not cold… the poor child was frozen!

"Do you know why you are in here?" he asked carefully. As much as Erik wanted to take the girl up into his arms--like he did so many weeks ago in the torture chamber--and carry her away, he was still wary of her and her unnatural power over him.

Christine put her hands to her temples, furrowing her brow and trying with all her might to remember. Pictures flashed before her mind: Raoul, an old crone, the sunlight, torture… but she could not manage to put them into any significant order. After a few seconds of frustrating contemplation, the sound of dripping water snapped her out of her thoughts. She cast a glare at the offending puddle and then turned, despairingly, back to the priest.

"I think I knew once…" she sighed. She then raised her teary gaze to the priest and clasped her hands in supplication.

"What is happening to me?" she sobbed, "I am afraid… so cold… I… just… _why_?"

Erik's heart broke and he was overwhelmed with an unfamiliar sense of compassion. He crouched on the ground to meet her at eye level, moving slowly as with a frightened animal, and asked, "Would you like me to take you away from this place?"

Her breath hitched and her eyes went wide with shock. Unable to speak, she merely nodded. The dark man then rose to his feet and extended his hand to her.

"Then follow me."

She hesitantly reached up and grasped his outstretched hand.

However, no sooner had she touched his skin did she recoil and fall back to the ground in horror. Even though she thoroughly frozen--colder than she had ever thought possible--the man's hand was colder still.

Only Death itself could have so icy a touch.

Her mind reeled. Had it happened already? Was this Death coming to claim her? If it was…

"Who are you?" she gasped.

Erik was torn between sadness and rage. He had always expected her to react to his touch in such a way… but the confirmation of her rejection stung more than he had imagined. His eyes gleamed with fury as he threw back his cowl and removed his mask.

She was right. It was Death looking back upon her with glowing eyes.

Beyond that, though, it was the face of the man who had done her so much wrong. Suddenly, images came flooding back to her: a voice cursing her in the street, a ghost trying to carry her off, the beaten man in the alley, those eyes in the torture chamber… that demon's head standing above her beloved captain as he plunged the hated dagger into his neck. Suddenly, misfortune upon misfortune seemed to link back to the being in front of her.

Christine tried to speak, but her voice failed her. Her lips moved soundlessly and she dropped back to her knees, staring at the demon with disbelieving eyes.

"Yes, Christine… it is I. I am not an angel… or a ghost… I am a man. I am Erik." was the creature's breathless reply.

The poor girl, overwhelmed, began to weep like a child. Erik replaced his mask and watched her in silence for a time. When she had no more tears to let, she fell quiet once again.

"Do I frighten you, then?" Erik asked at length.

Christine merely stared at him stupidly until she realized that he actually expected an answer to the question.

"Yes." she whispered, "Nothing frightens me more…"

He sighed. "That is not my wish," he said.

Another unnerving silence followed, the tension proving too much for Christine. Hysterical, she shouted at the dark man. "What _is_ your wish then? Kill me quickly, since that is your desire. Deal the final blow--or did you come only to watch me suffer?"

She bowed her head, awaiting the pain to follow. When it did not come, she looked back up at him, her fury renewed. "What have I ever done to you?" she cried with a hint of pleading to her voice, "I do not even _know_ you! What do you have against me?… Why do you hate me so?"

The final thread of Erik's resistance snapped at last. _No more games,_ he told himself. _You love her… deeply and completely. You want her, now and always. Admit it to yourself and admit it to her. This must end _now

"Hate you?" he cried, "I _love_ you!"

* * *


	17. Confessions of the guilty

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, nor do I own The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I'm just the one gluing them together.

* * *

"_Hate you?" he cried, "I _love_ you!"_

The declaration was followed by a maddeningly long silence. The suddenness of his declaration was such that neither knew how to proceed. Erik's breath came out in shallow pants that seemed to echo in the otherwise quiet room. Christine seemed to have stopped breathing entirely as she sat, stupefied under the weight of what she had just heard.

When she finally did speak, Christine couldn't seem to form the right words.

"How… you… I…" she looked down at her palms and then glanced up to see the man she feared, kneeling before her with desperation in his eyes. "How can this be?" she breathed.

He sighed and, with a calm that belied his true emotional state, resolved to explain everything.

"Listen," he said, as he began to admit to her everything that he had scarcely begun to admit to himself, "I… you have to understand… you did not know me before. Before I met you… I was happy." Christine scoffed at this and his head snapped up, shooting her an angry glare.

"I was happy, I tell you!… at least I thought I was happy… I was good. I was pure. Physicians sought my advice on medicine… doctors on doctrine and priests on chastity! There was nothing I did not answer. Science was like a sister to me! Knowledge was my life… and I was happy to live it. That is not to say that I am beyond the weaknesses of man… in my youth there were occasions when my treacherous body was stirred by a woman I passed in the streets. But I prayed and I fasted and I claimed command over my body again. Then I avoided women. With the temptation removed, I only had to retreat to my books and all sinful thoughts fled my mind, leaving me with the peace and tranquility of eternal truth."

"But such a thing could not last… no… the Adversary had different plans for me as evidenced in _you_! You see, dear girl… I was by my window reading so many months ago when I heard the sound of a tambourine. Annoyed at being disturbed, I looked into the square. What I saw was not a sight meant for human eyes. Behold, I saw an angel there… dancing in the streets. She had dark hair and large, black eyes. Yes… I saw your eyes, even from atop the tower… I have… I have inordinately clear eyesight, you see. Oh! You were beautiful then! And to my dismay, I have watched you become more beautiful with each passing day…"

"Ah! But, you see dear girl, it was not the resplendent vision that captivated me so! If that had been the whole of it, I suspect I may have resisted the stirring in my heart… but that was not the end. No! You sat down, slightly breathless from dancing… and that--that, darling child, is when you began to sing! That voice! When I heard you… oh beautiful girl… I shuddered with terror. Yes, terror… because I felt fate seizing hold of me."

"I am no stranger to the workings of the Devil. I have read a great deal about upright men falling into the pit by Satan's snares. I knew that the creature before my eyes was more than a mere girl. No human could possess the type of resplendent beauty I saw that day. No, a creature like that could only be made of heaven or hell. I knew it had to be some sort of angel in the square that day… but… but it was an angel of fire, not of light. And then… then I noticed that black cat resting by your feet--a black cat which I know to be a witches' familiar… and all doubt in my mind was lost. I truly believed you to be a demon of hell."

Erik paused, looking the trembling girl in the eyes once more, and added coldly, "I believe it still."

Christine gasped at the accusation. Her confusion was genuine; this man, who had ruined her simple life and who claimed to love her, was now accusing her of being a demon. Nevertheless, he continued.

"But… that matters not. It was not long before I had begun to feel the effects of the spell you were weaving around me. I fought it! I did… at first. I thought to run--to leave the window and retreat to a quieter part of the tower--but found that my feet were frozen in place. But, after a while, my mind no longer wished to resist. It is like one dying in the snow… where sleep seems peaceful and welcoming even though when it means certain death."

"That was the beginning of my obsession. From that day I began a transformation into a man that I no longer recognize. I could not sleep… could not eat… when I closed my eyes to pray, the thought of you was the only thing to enter my mind… each time I retreated to my beloved books, I saw your silhouette dancing between my eyes and the pages. I could hear naught but your angelic voice and could see naught but your unearthly beauty. When I tried to sleep… oh, because those were the worst times… when I tried to sleep, I could actually _feel_ your form pressed against my own!"

"In my developing madness, I realized that it is not uncommon for a man to visualize something as more perfect than it is. Convinced as I was that you were impossibly perfect, I thought it prudent to seek you out again. I thought that, perhaps, I could see you in another setting and replace my dream with reality. Oh! That was a disaster! I followed you… watched you… but I succeeded at achieving the opposite of my intent. When I had seen you that second time… I knew I had to see you again. I wanted to see you a thousand times! I wanted to hold you to me that I might look upon you forever. Don't you see? I thought to rid myself of you and succeeded only in binding my heart to you further!"

The broken man released yet another shuddering sigh and paused, for a time, in contemplation. In a twisted, almost amused tone, he mentioned, "You know, I did try to be peaceful at first. I thought to send you away from me… that if you were no longer near, I would be able to heal my sickened heart. Remember when all gypsies were banned from the streets? Yes, I was responsible for that edict. But you… silly, impudent child that you are… you ignored the law and continued to torment me anyway."

"One eve, when I thought I could stand no more, I followed you. It was not the first time, as you now know, and I knew your habits well. The idea came to me to abduct you. A strange compulsion, I realize… but my mind is capable of stranger things, yet. I am sure you remember… I already had you in my power when that wretched officer delivered you…"

"Raoul!" Christine whispered.

Erik ground his teeth, trying not to rage at having heard _that name_ uttered by this woman. "Yes," he grated, "That miserable captain! It was he who began your unhappiness… and his own. Before _him_… I had born my suffering alone. But then _he_ appeared… and, oh! You were so taken with him! But… give me a moment; I am getting to that part."

"I began to think on how I had been bewitched by you. Perhaps there could be some salvation for me, yet. I thought for a moment of Bruno d'Ast, another man enchanted by a sorceress. He had the witch burned and was cured. Later, you see, I even looked it up in one of my books and confirmed it… but… wait… I am not there yet. As I considered whether I was to denounce you, I heard your young man bragging to another about a young woman that he was to meet later. I raged at the way he planned to defile the young lady and my blood boiled in my veins when I discovered that the young lady in question was you…"

"Yes… I can see on your face that you do not believe me. You wish to have only honorable thoughts of your young man… but I assure you that his intentions were not as pure as yours. Anyway, when I heard this, it was all I could do not to spring forth and strangle him on the spot."

Erik held his head in his hands for a moment before looking back up and studying Christine's face with an almost frantic intensity.

"I followed him to his meeting, you see. I… you… you can't know the pain I endured then! To see you, my angel, in his arms… flushed and palpitating… and knowing that _he_ could never love you as I do… it was unbearable! In my pain and my madness, I emerged from my hiding place and attacked him…"

He took a breath and concluded, "I suppose you know the rest…"

"Oh Raoul!" Christine wept, "My Raoul!"

Erik's eyes flashed dangerously and he leapt forward with the speed and precision of a cobra, grabbing her wrists and pulling her forward so that her face was mere inches from his own.

"Do not speak that name." he ground out slowly and menacingly, emphasizing each word in his frighteningly soft voice. Christine whimpered slightly at the painful force he was using to clasp her wrists and, as if coming from a trance, he abruptly released her.

"Don't you see what you do to me, Christine?" he pleaded, "Each time you utter _his_ name, you rip my heart from my chest and crush it against the stones."

Christine swallowed, wondering where to go from here. "It was you in the torture chamber, wasn't it?" she asked softly.

"Yes." he whispered. "I... I hadn't planned on torture. Oh! If only you could understand. I thought I was doing the right thing. I couldn't bring myself to denounce you... as much as I wanted to, I could not do it. So, when they charged you with my crime, I thought that this was Fate's way of setting things to right. I thought that you would be convicted of your sorcery and, then, I could finally be free of you--just like Bruno d'Ast."

He paused for a long moment, lost in thought. Christine was wondering if she was supposed to say something, but she had no idea where to begin. Her dilemma solved itself, however, because he started speaking again.

"I think," he sighed, "that I also had a confused idea that arresting you would deliver you into my hands." He looked around the damp cell with his hands out to emphasize. "I figured that, trapped here, I would finally have you in my power... that, as a prisoner, I could hold you."

"But," he said again, shaking his head gravely, "I hadn't planned on torture. Oh sweet child! Yes, it was I in that horrible chamber with you that day. I was there when they encased your foot--oh that lovely foot that I would have given an empire to kiss only once before I died--in that infamous boot which crushes whole limbs into unrecognizable matter. I was there when you screamed and cried out and begged for mercy. It was torture for me as well, don't you see? I began to slice my chest with my knife. When you cried out, I plunged it into my side. If you had screamed again... I am certain I would have driven it into my heart. Anything to hide the pain of watching the woman I love suffer so terribly! I see that you do not believe me--but, behold, I think it still bleeds!"

Erik then ripped open the top of his robe. In the dim light, Christine could make out ugly scars... it looked as if he had been struck by a tiger's claw and, in his side lay badly healed wound. She recoiled in horror, knowing he had done this to himself out of his supposed love for her.

"Where is Raoul?" she asked wearily.

"HE IS DEAD!" cried the monk. "He is dead, I tell you! Do not ask of him again! Don't you see what pain it causes me to hear you speak his name? Even after I have confessed my feelings for you, you insisted on calling out for him. Oh Christine! You think you know about torture... but I tell you that you know nothing!"

"Imagine what it is like for me... to be a priest, to be repulsive and hideous and hated by all. To finally open one's heart enough to love a woman... and then to see that woman sighing under the attentions of another! To adore everything about her... her bright eyes, her kind heart, her unearthly voice... and to see her fall hopelessly in love with an insipid wretch with a handsome face! To have to live knowing that one's rival is a beautiful knight in golden armor when all that one can offer to the woman he adores is the face of death and a priest's cassock--which are repulsive and frightening in comparison!"

"Darling Christine… my love, my muse! Have pity on me! Have pity on yourself! I can save you… I have the power to take you from this place. We can go away… I… I have a house in the country… it is a secret place and no one will find us. Or, if that is unacceptable, we can go somewhere else--I will take you anywhere your heart desires… I will be your willing slave until the day I die. You are afraid of me now, I know… I have done terrible things… but, I can be good! Say 'yes' and I promise I will give you no reason to fear me! For you, I could be anything! I could be gentle as a lamb if only you would love me!"

Christine began to breathe heavily as a panic threatened to overwhelm her. This was too much, too soon. She was overcome by the situation and, yet, was expected to answer.

When she did not respond right away, Erik stared intently into her eyes, unnerving her further. "Will you have me?" he murmured, searching her eyes for signs of… something… Hope? Revulsion?

Christine did not give him long, though. Under his intense stare, she cracked. "Be thine? Never!" she hissed. Then she continued, her voice taking on a more frantic quality with every word. "You are a vile fiend! A murderer! You killed my love… no… he is not dead… he cannot be dead… You ruined my life! Don't you see? I was happy! I had everything I needed! I will _never _belong to you!"

"You would rather face the gibbet?" he asked incredulously. Was death truly a better option? He thought, bitterly.

She laughed almost maniacally.

Erik clenched his fists and rose to leave. "Die, then." he said coldly. That seemed to stop her laughter, but she still glared at him wickedly.

"Where is Raoul?" she asked again through gritted teeth.

"He is dead." he snapped and left her alone again.

Overwhelmed and alone, Christine huddled back into her damp corner and cried herself to sleep.

-------------------------------------------

The guard stood at the door as Erik emerged from the chamber. If he had heard any of the commotion inside, he made no sign. Erik concluded that the walls were probably too thick or else the burly man didn't care about the interactions between a priest and a condemned prisoner.

Erik turned to the man and handed him a heavy sack of coins.

"You will remember to feed this prisoner tonight?" he inquired.

The guard, eagerly feeling the weight in his hands and thinking of his impending visit to the tavern, simply nodded.

Satisfied, Erik handed the man a small vial.

"You will put this into her drink. You will make sure _she finishes it all_." His voice carried an almost hypnotic quality--enough that the guard missed the glint of danger there.

Erik's eyes flashed and he smiled. "Excellent. There's a good man," he said, handing an even heavier sack of money to the guard.

He left the beaming guard with but one thought on his mind. _This is not over, Christine. I will have you yet._

_

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_

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	18. Upon the steps of Notre Dame

_Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera (Gaston Leroux). I also do not own The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Victor Hugo). There is a direct quote from the Hugo book in this chapter... it is the same quote I am currently using in my summary. _

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After the trial, Pierre found himself thanking the heavens that Amica was a cat. Had she been a goat or a pig, she could have easily been recaptured and tried. Undoubtedly she would be sentenced to death… likely hanging or burning (the thought made him shudder). Being a cat, however, gave her a significant advantage in that, once she had been released to unwittingly help in the condemnation of her mistress, she was able to scratch and wriggle and otherwise avoid the hated crate in which she had previously been contained. With a grace that can only be claimed by her feline brothers and sisters, she slipped under a man's legs and out the building. 

Discreet as he was, Pierre found himself pleased to be instrumental in her escape. Not only did he block the door after her departure, he also distracted the guards with a rather lengthy oration regarding the history of morality in the prison system--an act which earned him a couple bruised ribs and a black eye.

Still, that did not solve his current problem: where to find his feline companion? He scowled thoughtfully. On the one hand, he knew Amica to be a very smart cat indeed and he had heard that cats have an uncanny ability to find their way home--or, at least, find their way to a guaranteed food source. On the other hand, he worried for his best friend, all alone in the streets.

Briefly he wondered if his attentions were misplaced. Shouldn't he be more concerned with the welfare of his _wife_ than of his _cat_?

No, he finally decided. He liked Christine well enough and, from what he knew of her, was a very nice girl. But, realistically speaking, what could he do to help her? Her sentence had been read and, likely, she was now hidden away in some impenetrable part of the dungeon. Appeal was not an option; escape was not an option. Why should he waste his time fretting about circumstances he could do nothing about? No, he was not confused in his priorities… rescuing his little love from the big, bad world was the only logical thing to do.

Even as he thought this, he was distracted by a small weight brushing against his leg. Looking down, he recognized the affectionate beast as the very cat he was looking for! Content that Fate had agreed with his decision to move on and direct his energy to his other friend, he happily scooped her up and headed home.

He found the rest of the gypsy camp had a tougher time with the unfortunate news and seemed--much to his incomprehension --to accept the same sort of blasé attitude that he had acquired on the subject. The following weeks were tense as the people awoke each morning wondering if this was the day their beloved Christine would be no more.

For a while, Pierre worried that he would be cast out of the camp. Christine was the only reason he had been reluctantly accepted in the first place. With her as good as dead, would they still allow him to stay in her house and live among them?

Much to his delight, though, he found that the past months had been enough to convince the tribe of his usefulness. Even the King seemed to have developed a grudging affection for the funny little man.

And so, the poet-turned-juggler moved on with life and settled back into his easy routine. When a boy finally ran into the camp one morning, excitedly announcing to all that a witch would be hung today, he did not even register the connection with said witch and his former wife. With the rest of camp gone to watch the spectacle, Pierre opted for sleeping in.

Witches were always being hung; he would just catch the next one.

----------------------------------------------

Raoul had to admit, being waited on by a handful of beautiful women was most agreeable. What had made him resist this in the first place? After about five minutes under the care of his gorgeous fiancée, Fleur-de-Lys, and her host of attractive bridesmaids, he came to the conclusion that getting stabbed was one of the best things that could have happened to him.

Yes, life was good.

Now, granted, he owed a lot of that to his brother, Philippe. The elder Chagny had only informed the Gondelaurier household that Raoul had been injured, but had not specified where or how. The charming captain took a certain joy in weaving a convincing tale together.

Naturally he could not tell his fiancée that he had been attacked while trying to seduce a little gypsy girl--the same little gypsy girl that poor Fleur was insanely jealous of--in a seedy inn. That would not do at all. It quickly became well known to all the ladies and nosy neighbors that the officer had been in a terrible fight while defending the honor of the King in the line of duty.

It wasn't a stretch of the truth… it was a boldfaced lie and he knew it. Still, the benefits of such a noble injury were so great that he found it hard to concern himself with trivial matters such as truth and integrity.

One day, as he reclined in the sitting room (he was now well enough to get out of bed and move about, yet infirmed enough to need his arm around the waist of one or two lovely ladies to assist him), little Bérangère came barreling down the stairs.

"Bérangère!" Fleur scolded, "What are you thinking? Do not run so! It is _very_ unlovely."

Bérangère lowered her head in embarrassment for a moment before she realized the whole reason she came down.

"Fleur!" she cried excitedly, "Come to the balcony! They are hanging a witch today!"

Fleur-de-Lys handed Raoul his glass of wine and headed to the window to see what her little cousin was talking about. Raoul watched her slender figure as she swayed across the room and took advantage of her turned back to pat the bottom of one of the other darlings attending him.

"She's right, ladies! Come have a look." she said from the window. Her companions fluttered over to her, leaving a very disconcerted Raoul alone in his chair.

"Now see here," he whined, "What is all this commotion about?"

"A hanging, Raoul." Fleur chirped. "Let us go out to the balcony… Please? It's been so long since we've had a good spectacle."

He gave a long-suffering sigh followed by a knee-buckling grin. "Oh, my darling. Such a predicament I am in--it seems I can never say no to you."

The party withdrew to the balcony ordered a servant to deliver some refreshments as they settled in to enjoy the afternoon's entertainment.

Suddenly, Fleur's eyes narrowed as the cart bearing the prisoner passed by on the street.

"Look Raoul," she said with forced airiness, "Isn't that the same gypsy girl that came up to entertain us a few months ago?"

Raoul paled. "Suddenly, ladies, I don't feel quite well. I think this morning's exertions have proven a little much for me. Perhaps I will go lie down."

In an instant, he was surrounded by worried women, pressing wrists to his forehead and leading him away while offering him water and blankets.

----------------------------------------------

As he emerged from the prisons, Erik was just as perplexed as he was maddened by the experience. He was not exactly sure what he had expected, but her vehement rejection was not it.

He had just expressed to her the depth of his adoration and his unwavering devotion. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he truly believed that no woman could deny a love so powerful.

Surely, he did not expect her to throw herself into his arms and confess her own desire… but she had blatantly admitted that _death_ was preferable to his love!

_Perhaps it was for the best_, he supposed. Over the years, his isolation had spoiled him into thinking that he was more human than he was. Just because he thought like a man and felt like a man did not mean the rest of the world saw him that way. Perhaps this painful rejection was just the heavens reminding him that he would never be anything more than a monster. It was presumptuous of him to think otherwise.

Oh! But how he longed for more! Meeting Christine had exposed for his scrutiny all the facets of life he was missing. His books were no longer worthy companions and he wished desperately for another person to share his life with… not a student or colleague--for there were always people who could benefit from his advice and knowledge--but, rather, someone to live life by his side and share those everyday experiences that are taken for granted by the rest of mankind but that he would cherish.

In short, he wanted to be loved for himself.

A frightening notion, especially since love had never before entered his stream of consciousness, but Erik could not seem to rid himself of the desire. His mind finally realized that, even if Christine were long dead, he would never be free of her. She had worked herself so completely through his soul that he had no hope of returning his life to the way it used to be.

That is what led him to do what he did tonight. He was beyond hope of redemption, so why not take the final step? _When one does wrong, one must do it thoroughly_, he thought. _'Tis madness to halt midway in the monstrous! _

Erik would not abandon her to the gallows. He would do what he should have done from the beginning when he was too busy fighting this growing affliction to see the futility of it all. He would take what was his and consequences be damned.

The potion would be effective, he had utmost confidence in his skills. Everything would go as planned; he was certain of it.

Why, then, was he feeling so nervous?

Erik took a deep, measured breath as he returned to his quarters. By this time tomorrow, it would all be finished. This evening, though, he knew he was in for a long night.

----------------------------------------------

Christine supposed that the morning came quickly. It was really hard to say, shut away as she was, but her mind was so active after the priest had left that she barely registered a passage of time.

She assumed she must have eaten, at some point, because the sack and mug that once held her bread and water were empty, but she did not specifically recollect doing so. That was what she was pondering when the heavy iron doorway opened once again.

This time she was greeted, not by a priest, but by two guards in full armor.

"It's time, girl," she heard one of them say.

Christine did not shrink back or attempt escape. Instead, she simply bobbed her dark head in acknowledgement and presented her wrists to the nearest guard to be bound. The guard was clearly displeased at her acceptance--likely, he was looking forward to beating a prisoner today--but said nothing as he tied her hands and led her out of the cell.

The sun was glorious on her face. The fresh air and the warmth caused such a reaction in her that, had she the strength, she might have smiled. Even knowing that she was traveling towards her death, Christine decided that this was the best day she'd had in weeks. Today she had felt the sunshine and soon she would be with her dear Raoul again. Weak and tired, though she was, Christine was feeling more content than she ever thought she would again.

She was led into a rickety cart and driven slowly down the streets towards Notre Dame. The scene seemed almost surreal, as if time had slowed dramatically, as they passed by the Place de Grève, where she would hang after her penance was complete. Though she no longer held any fear of death, the sight of that menacing gibbet was unnerving to her. She swallowed nervously and looked away, focusing instead on a nearby house.

What she saw there caused her eyes to grow wide and her jaw to drop slightly.

_Raoul!_

There he was, sitting on the balcony, looking down at her.

If she hadn't been bound, she would have tumbled out of the wagon; she staggered to the corner of the cart and called out to him.

"Raoul! Raoul!" Then, turning to the gathering crowd around her, she cried out to anyone who could hear her, "Can't you see? He is alive!"

The crowd answered by increasing their jeers and insults. One bystander even through at her a piece of rotten fruit.

"Raoul! Raoul!" she pleaded again, "It's me, Raoul! Don't you recognize me? Your Christine? Please save me! I love you--we can be together now!"

The handsome man's gaze turned cold as he whispered something to the woman beside him and turned his back on Christine to go back inside the house. Christine screamed in horror. Her Raoul was alive… but he did not recognize her!

_How much different must I look,_ she wondered, _that my love no longer recognizes me?_

Suddenly, an hope that she once had---either of being rescued by Raoul or being reunited with him in death---vanished, leaving only despair. She bowed her head and sunk down upon her knees in grief.

The position would not last long, however, for the wagon soon stopped and she was roughly pulled down and dragged to the steps of the cathedral. She looked up and gasped. There, among all the priests and officials, stood the one person she feared most, glaring at her like a falcon about to descend upon a lark.

----------------------------------------------

Erik was shocked and a little disturbed to see the young girl before him. Honestly, he had not expected to make it this far. His potion should have taken affect by now.

One of the guards, whom he had enlisted as a spy, was to come to him in the event that something strange began to happen to the prisoner. However, as the time trickled by with no messenger, he became increasingly anxious.

What if it did not work? What if she never even consumed it? What if his plan failed?

_No!_ his mind screamed. Failure was not an option. Fate had given Christine to him and God help him--God help Paris!--if he could not have her.

Trying to still his trembling hands, the solemn priest approached the prisoner. He could not help the pang of guilt in his heart when he saw the terror in her eyes, but knew that now was not the time to dwell on such things. He would spend the rest of his wretched life making amends for the wrongs he had committed against her, but now was the time to do what needed to be done.

He leaned down by her ear--appearing, to the crowd, to be taking her last confession--and whispered, "I can save you Christine. Please, I beg of you! Will you have me? Tell me you will be mine and I will take you under my protection. I will take you far away from this place if you will only agree to let me love you."

Christine, her bitterness renewed by her sudden sense of hopelessness at Raoul's unwitting rejection, whispered harshly, "You, sir, are the culmination of all that is evil in the world. You say that I am from the devil, but you _are_ the devil. I will never belong to you. I'll die first."

Just as she said these words, Christine began to feel very strange. A sensation that she could not describe pulsed through her and she struggled to focus.

Christine did not register the words he said next. She merely felt his breath against the shell of her ear and heard the sweet rumble that was his voice before she could resist no more and the strange sensation overtook her completely.

Erik immediately took notice when her eyes began to cloud over. He gave a wicked smirk and murmured by her ear, "That's just it, my dear. You _already_ belong to me."

* * *


	19. Who do you belong to?

* * *

There was a collective gasp followed by frantic murmurs from the crowd as they beheld the interactions between the austere priest and the prisoner. He leaned down to receive her confession and said a few words in her ear. As he spoke, the girl began to sway slightly. When he drew away, she collapsed against the steps, convulsing violently.

The confusion was genuine; at first, the audience had no idea what to make of the little prisoner, jerking erratically before a house of God. Suddenly, though, an idea came to one of the spectators, which he announced quite readily.

"Look everyone!" he cried, "The witch is possessed! Behold the demon trying to escape!"

The crowd began to shout in horror and agreement. The words of the holy priest seemed be exorcising—or at least agitating—the demon that controlled her. A mob is a dim lot—one minute singing praises, the next, condemnations. For these spectators, who had previously hurled insults and jeers at the wretched girl, this new information changed matters entirely.

Everyone knows that demons can attack even the loveliest of creatures if one is not ever-vigilant against the threat of evil. This is the reason mothers beat their children to say their prayers and pious old women are wary of strangers after dark. This is the reason the townspeople lock up their families and livestock at night, lest the Goblin Monk carry them away.

But this beautiful dancer—a gypsy, without the knowledge of Christ's love to keep the devil at bay—was a perfect target for the pressures of darkness.

As the prisoner's mouth began to leak bloody foam, the audience began to wonder: If she is under demonic influence, is she truly in control of her actions? Granted, as a gypsy, she could not be considered truly innocent. However, if she were possessed by a spirit—one that seemed to be trying to flee this very instant—perhaps she should not be held responsible for the entirety of her crimes.

The murmuring soon turned to shouts as each member of the growing crowd determined to have their say in the matter. Priests and court officials looked to each other in panic. This was highly irregular. Whatever should they do? Any course of action carried the risk of profound consequences. Even the choirboys shifted nervously in the ranks.

The archdeacon, however, remained as calm and solemn as ever in the midst of the disorder.

"Silence!" he called out with authority. All commotion quieted instantly. He motioned to some of his fellow monks, who quickly and obediently attended the girl, laying her on her back and holding her down preventing her from hurting herself further in her convulsing.

"This prisoner is clearly under the influence of something much more powerful than herself. You are right to be alarmed, dear people, but fear not. We should, instead, treat this as an opportunity. Yes, I say an opportunity! For you see, people, we have a duty to exorcise this demon and bring this young woman into the fold of God's children. Today we shall win another soul for Christ! Today the Devil shall not triumph!"

His convincing oration, matched by the hypnotic power and certainty in his voice, was enough to excite and unify the crowd. They cheered raucously.

The officials, afraid to incite a riot, shrugged helplessly and looked to the archdeacon for guidance.

"I shall leave this in your hands, Master Erik," whispered a very pale Jacque Charmolue. "Will you give her sanctuary until this mess is sorted out?"

The dark man nodded, glad that his mask and hood hid the smirk on his face, and instructed some men to carry the girl inside.

Meanwhile, Father Mansart watched the entire scene with a deep frown on his already severe face. The rest of the world might have been fooled, but he sensed Erik's hand in this ordeal. For the first time, though, he wondered whether he should worry more for his adopted son or for the unhappy woman who bewitched him.

--------------------------------------------------

The first thing Christine registered was warmth. Even before her eyes opened and her mind recalled the horrors of the day, Christine was surrounded by the unfamiliar sensation of warmth and—dare she think it? —safety.

Could this be real? It had been so long since she had felt anything besides cold and despair.

One by one, her memories returned to her. But she viewed them with the same abstraction as if she were watching a scene unfold before her, rather than reliving it herself.

No, she decided, this could not be real. The memories she viewed were too dark for her to be feeling this way now.

Perhaps this was what death was like. Yes, that must be it. Her last memories were on the steps of Notre Dame. She must have fainted and been executed in her unconsciousness. God was truly merciful, if that were the case.

Was this Heaven, then?

Christine smiled contentedly, only to gasp in pain as she did so. Christine sensed the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. At some point, she realized, she must have bitten the inside of her cheek.

But, if she was dead, why did she still feel pain?

Realizing that something was not right, she finally willed her eyes to open.

Bright light flooded her vision and she was forced to shade her face with her arm until she could adjust. It would seem, after her long confinement, that her eyes were overly sensitive against the sun. The thought saddened her a little. That she, one always referred to as a child of the light, should now shy away from sunshine was disheartening.

After a few minutes, though, Christine was able to look around and assess her surroundings. The room was impossibly small (only six feet long and six feet wide) and simply furnished. In the corner rested a little chair with a white bundle atop it and beneath her on the floor there laid a soft mattress. Though the bed was filled with straw, it was infinitely more wonderful than anything she had experienced in the past months. To Christine, the pathetic mat was soft as a cloud and just as heavenly.

She got a good glimpse of her hands as she caressed the bed's smooth, cloth covering. She almost didn't recognize them. These could not be her hands; they were pink and clean, like they used to be before… well, before.

Actually, her whole body had been scrubbed. Her hair was brushed and no longer hung in limp, filthy clumps about her shoulders. She smelled good all over and smiled despite herself at the simple pleasure. It felt so good to be clean.

_Who would have done this?_

For the first time, Christine realized she was dressed in nothing but a shift. It was new and clean, but still hardly appropriate as stand-alone attire and she wondered how many people had seen her dressed thus. Then it occurred to her that she had been wearing little more during her imprisonment and even less during her ride through the streets towards her execution.

Christine shuddered. Had they stripped her so thoroughly of her humanity that she did not even realize she had been nearly naked before hundreds of people?

_Never mind that,_ she told herself. _Now's not the time to dwell on the past. Press on, Christine. You can do this._

She curiously picked up the bundle from the chair and unfolded it. To her gratitude, the bundle happened to be a white dress and veil. She slipped on the garment and covered her long, black hair with the veil. Then she took her place in the chair beside the tiny window.

Sooner or later, someone would have to come speak with her. For now, though, there was nothing to do but wait and enjoy her precious view of the outside.

--------------------------------------------------

"Erik…" Mansart growled, "This is madness."

"I agree, my friend," Erik responded in a bored tone. "And, as much as I love where this conversation is going, I have a matter to attend to."

The elder priest stepped in front of Erik's path, blocking the door. "You are not going to her, are you?"

"And why should I not?" asked Erik with a growing hint of menace to his voice.

Erik was not in the mood for this argument. His plan was a success and he wanted to celebrate.

Also, he had not seen Christine since she was taken into the cathedral and he felt the need to be sure she was okay. The sight of her blood worried and sickened him—the drug was designed to have no lasting effects, and it had not occurred to him that she could have bitten her tongue or injured herself indirectly. Once he realized it, though, it had been too late and he could not give himself up by showing concern. Now, he really needed to see for himself that she was okay.

Temporarily forgetting himself, Erik shut his eyes and daydreamed about what it would be like when he found her. Most likely, she was still asleep. He would enter her room so very quietly and lift her from her bed. He would bathe her and dress her and see to any scrapes and bruises even before she woke up. He would brush her long hair lovingly, savoring each stroke as he methodically untangled each precious curl. Then—he thought with a smile—when all was said and done, he would indulge himself further. He would settle himself on her bed and cradle her in his arms. When she woke, she would bury herself into his chest as she did that night in the torture chamber. He would sing to her then and they would be content in holding and comforting one another so that no words need be spoken right away.

"Erik!" the old man snapped, "Are you even listening to me?"

"I should think not. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"I will not! That poor child has been through enough without you marching in there with whatever distasteful ideas your sick mind has been infected with."

"She belongs to me!" Erik cried, pounding his fist against a desk.

"AND WHO DO YOU BELONG TO?" Mansart shouted back. The desperation in his friend's voice made his heart sink a little. He sounded so much like a child then. A part of him knew that Erik was already lost—to whom? The girl? The Devil? –and he could only hope that he did not hurt anyone else with his madness.

Gentler, he added, "Erik, it's time to decide what kind of man you are going to be. There are many who have called you a monster or a sorcerer. I have always believed that you have a greater capacity for good than any other. But, it's time to choose. That girl has been given sanctuary in this place. Are you going to be the kind of man to protect and respect her? Or are you going to selfishly seek your own desires until there is nothing left of her broken spirit to possess? I don't want to think that either one of you is totally beyond help… but I think that's going to be up to you to prove."

Erik bit back a sob as he shook in grief and rage. The display only lasted for a few seconds, though, before Erik rebuilt his wall of coolness.

With an indifferent tone--though Father Mansart thought he might detect a hint of a tremble--Erik said, "She is not well. She will need a bath and fresh clothes and…"

Mansart nodded and put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "I have already seen to it, my friend. I ordered some lay brothers to bring up a tub of water and I have sent for a few members of the Sisterhood to attend to her."

Erik merely sighed and turned away.

As Mansart left, he looked over his shoulder and added, "Have courage, my son, but think of what I have said. She will not be going anywhere any time soon and this will not be getting any easier for you. It's best to decide now while you still belong to yourself."

Erik scoffed as the door closed. He looked down onto the streets where he had first watched Christine perform. He shook his head sadly.

"I have not belonged to myself since the first moment I heard her sing."

* * *


	20. A tentative friendship

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This story is based off of the novels by Gaston Leroux and Victor Hugo (respectively).

Well, here's a softer chapter for you folks. If nothing else, it'll show that Erik is not _pure_ evil. Enjoy.

* * *

There are few things more unhealthy than an idle mind. This was what Christine had come to realize in her days of solitude.

A few hours after she had woken up from her frightening ordeal, she had been visited by a priest. He was a kind, older man, she supposed--too old to be her father but too young to be her grandfather. Though he had a severe face, his voice was gentle and she found herself warming up to him almost instantly.

"Don't be alarmed, my dear," he had said upon entering, "I am not going to hurt you. I thought you might be hungry so I brought you something to eat."

"Th-thank you," Christine said, hesitantly reaching her hand out to take the basket he held.

She quietly nibbled on a piece of bread for a few minutes before the flood of questions came out, "Who are you? Where am I? What happened to me?"

The priest sat in the rickety chair and folded his hands serenely. "I am Father Mansart. You are in Notre Dame, in the room reserved for those who have been given sanctuary. Do you remember nothing?"

"Nothing, sir."

"You collapsed on the steps outside as the archdeacon was receiving your confession. Many believe you to be a victim of demonic possession, though I suspect--especially after speaking to you now--that there is something else going on. Tell me, girl, did you eat or drink anything strange or suspicious recently?"

She thought for a moment. "Not that I recall, sir… only the bread and water given to me by the guards."

Christine had experienced a moment of panic when she thought about the guards and that horrible prison.

"Oh no! You are not going to send me back there, are you Monseigneur? I swear, I did nothing wrong! I am innocent. It was a priest… a dark man, I do not remember his name… it was he who has brought all of this about. Please, sir! You must believe me! I cannot go back to that place!"

Mansart was a little unnerved by her open denouncement of the archdeacon. That would not bode well for Erik if the woman continued to speak thus. Still, as she clung to his robes, weeping and pleading, he realized that this was not the best time to reason with the gypsy.

"Relax, child. You will not be going anywhere just yet. You have sanctuary here. The guards cannot harm you within these walls. I assure you, you are safe."

"What is going to happen to me?"

"Nothing for now. You will remain here, the archdeacon or myself will see to your care, and we'll sort this mess out together. I have to warn you, though, that witchcraft is a terrible offense that the Church will not take lightly. If you know something, you'd best confess it now."

"I am innocent, I tell you!" she cried, "My Raoul lives! Go find him--Raoul de Chagny, captain of the king's archers--he will tell you what really happened."

"Very well," he nodded, "You best get some rest now, child. I will see you in the morning."

That was six days ago. The good Father Mansart had done his best to visit once each day, if for no other reason than to bring her a bit of food and some welcome company. Such visits, though, rarely lasted more than an hour, which meant Christine had the rest of the time to herself.

All her life, Christine had known only music and dance. Consequently, there was little she could do to entertain herself in this tiny room. Father Mansart had offered to bring her some books but, alas, she could not read. Perhaps she should learn to embroider--anything to keep her mind occupied.

As it was, Christine spent most of her time gazing longingly out the small window. She stubbornly refused to believe that Raoul had forgotten about her and waited patiently, imagining the day when he would come rescue her from the tower and take her away with him.

Still, with each passing hour, she found her hopes becoming more and more delusional until there were times when she knew not what was reality and what only occurred in her mind.

It was in this state that she heard The Voice.

------------------------------------------

Erik spent several days drifting about the cathedral like a shadow. He went through the motions of all of his duties, all the while his mind focused on the girl in the tower.

Leaving her alone was not an option, he had decided that right away.

On the other hand, barging in and demanding her attention would likely intimidate and upset her.

The side of him oft compared to a ghost urged him to hide somewhere and spy on her. His logical mind only entertained that idea for a short while before quashing it. He had been spying on her for months. Now that she was within his grasp, he had no intention of stepping backwards.

Actually, if he was honest with himself--and he was more and more these days--he would admit that seeing her might be a bad idea. She was here, under his power, so very close and so very helpless--relying on his word for her very existence. He knew that, if he looked in and saw her this way, he would have a struggle not to simply walk in and take what was his.

However, he still could not--nor did he want to--rid himselfof the overwhelming need to at least be _near_ her, if nothing else.

Oh, what he wouldn't give just to talk with her, test her mind, sing with her!

That did give him an idea.

One evening after services, he found himself in a passageway, just beside her room. For a few minutes he simply listened, wondering what she was thinking about.

She was near the window, from what he could judge. He heard her give one of the sighs he had come to adore followed by the phrase that made his blood turn to lead.

"Oh Raoul…"

Carefully disguising his voice, Erik answered the girl.

"Do not concern yourself with those thoughts, child. Dwelling on such fantasies can only bring you misery. Are there no happier things in that pretty head of yours?"

"He will come for me, you know," she said with authority.

Erik felt a wash of different emotions. Naturally, he grated at her insistence in regards to his rival. Another part was both concerned and intrigued by her casual response to a disembodied voice. _She is a witch,_ he reminded himself, _Perhaps she is accustomed to talking with spirits?_

"Do you know who I am, girl?"

Christine's brow furrowed. Actually, at this point, she thought she might be talking to herself. The traumatizing experiences of the last few months, followed by the intermittent times of nothingness where she was locked away in one room or another had left her mind so disoriented that she no longer knew what to believe.

At this point, nothing was too unreasonable.

"It matters not," she answered, shrugging, "One friendly voice is as good as another."

"Do you often encounter 'friendly voices'?" he asked, wondering to what extent he should worry.

"No. You'd be the first. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Actually, I am here looking after _you_. How are you faring? Are you very unhappy?"

"I've seen worse. I so wish I could run outside, though."

"Have you nothing with which to occupy your mind?"

"Nothing."

"Books?"

"I cannot read."

"Sewing? Spinning? Do you know a trade?"

"I have only ever danced."

"Have you attended to your prayers?" Erik didn't know why he asked that. He just wanted to gauge her response.

"I know not to whom I should pray. If it pleases you, I shall ask Father Mansart upon his next visit."

"Do you know why you are hear, dear girl?"

"I am here because the archdeacon wishes it" she spat with bitterness.

"He does so for your own protection. Do you realize that?"

Christine scoffed at this but did not say anything.

"It's getting late. Perhaps you should go to sleep, Christine."

She tensed at this. "I-I can't sleep," she said, quivering.

"Why not, child?" Erik asked, truly concerned.

"Nightmares."

"What kind of nightmares? What are they about?"

"Nothing."

"Come now, Christine, you can tell me. Perhaps I can help you."

"No… no you don't understand. These nightmares… I dream of nothing--dark, cold, empty nothingness. Life devoid of any light or happiness… like when I was in prison. It is terrible." She shivered.

To Erik, her words stung. He replied quietly, "Oh Christine! I am so, so sorry… so very sorry…"

The broken way in which the Voice spoke those words struck Christine with a wave of familiarity. _It couldn't be… No… I am imagining things. It couldn't be _him.

Both parties remained quiet for a time, each lost in their own thoughts.

Finally the Voice broke the silence, "Lay down in your bed, Christine," it said, "and I will help put you to sleep."

She did as she was told and soon felt a blanket of calm over her as the Voice began to sing. The tune was so hypnotic and so soothing that her present troubles were soon forgotten. No longer was she locked away in a tiny room. Now she was lying in an open field, not another house for miles, staring up at the wide expanse of the starry sky.

Erik sang tenderly, a song that his heart had written for Christine without his knowledge. After a fashion, his voice faded away and he got up to leave when he heard her voice call out to him.

"Are you an angel?" she said sleepily.

"I thought gypsies did not believe in angels," he said, though without the usual malice that would normally possess such words. He wondered why she always asked him that, anyway.

"I'm not a real gypsy anyway." she answered sadly, "I was an orphan. They took me in. I love them all dearly but… but I just… I don't…"

Erik found himself puzzled at her words. He desperately wanted her to finish that sentence but, in her exhaustion, her words fizzled into incoherent sighs and tired mutterings.

"Hush now, child," he soothed, "Sleep. We will talk again tomorrow." _I love you_, he wanted to add, but she was already asleep.

* * *


	21. Tormented

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or Hunchback of Notre Dame. Also, I used a short phrase that I took directly out of Hunchback... because it's pretty much my favorite description in the whole book. I just thought I'd mention it since it's not mine.

Let's experiment, shall we? Does Evil-Erik get more reviews than Good-Erik?

* * *

He simply stared for the longest time. Christine was looking out the window, her back to the door as always, and so she did not see Erik come in. The priest's shadow-like grace ensured that she did not hear him either. Naturally, she was startled when he finally spoke.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured.

Christine jumped and her eyes widened when she recognized her masked captor.

"What do you want?" she asked, backing up instinctively until she felt the stone against her palms. Her breathing grew even faster when she realized she was cornered.

Erik paced lazily, not approaching her but blocking the exit all the same. His gaze was predatory; his eyes smoldered and he smirked. Though he did not touch her, his elegant movements kept the girl frozen, much like the way a snake charms the unhappy bird it has chosen for its prey.

"I think it's the dress." he continued, ignoring her question, "White makes you look absolutely enchanting, my dear. Just like an angel."

"P-please leave." she said with a shaky voice.

Erik clucked his tongue patronizingly. "Now you know I can't do that, my dear. You've occupied my mind for far too long for me to turn back now. You have possessed me… now I believe it is my turn."

With super-human speed he closed the distance between them. Cradling her face in his hands, he forced her to look in his eyes.

"Kiss me, my love," he whispered.

She let out a sob and tried to pull back, her hands pressed against his chest in an effort to push him away.

"Ah-ah, my dear," he chided, "I'll have none of that, now."

He took both her wrists in one of his hands and held them above her head. In this position, he could press even closer to Christine, eliciting a gasp from her when she felt him against her belly.

Erik took advantage of that gasp, covering her parted lips with his own. She struggled and whimpered as he kissed her harshly, but he was relentless. He effortlessly kept her pinned between the wall and himself while his free hand roamed her neck and collar.

It was not long, though, until her struggling became that of a different kind. Her whimpers turned into sighs as her body slowly resigned itself to his ministrations.

Suddenly, and to Erik's infinite delight, he began to feel a new sort of pressure against his lips. She was kissing him back, and he loved it!

He cursed softly, replacing his questing fingers with his lips along her neck, freeing up his hand to travel lower onto her breast. She gasped again, startled by the new sensations, and bit his tongue playfully while her body inadvertently arched into his hand.

Erik let out a groan and released her hands, following her to the floor and barely pulling her up to her mattress before undressing them both.

Their lovemaking seemed to last forever. Erik would alternate between watching her expressions as he caressed her and closing his eyes to concentrate on the sensations he was feeling. He could not decide which was more pleasurable--a delightful quandary to be in, actually.

Towards the end though, he did open his eyes to study her face. Here she was, his love, his beautiful gypsy, the innocent and the seductress, lying beneath him, submissive and vulnerable. Her hair was splayed out over her pillow; her eyes were half closed and her lips, red and parted invitingly. Her head tilted back and, in the height of her passion, it was his name she whispered. This was too good to be true…

It was then that Erik realized…

This isn't real.

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Erik awoke panting and cursing at the same time. _Of course it wasn't real,_ he admonished, _How could it be? She is not like that, no matter how much you wish she was. More than that, though, _you_ are not like that. _

It was true. Do not misunderstand; the archdeacon really did feel every bit as passionate and ardent as his dream-counterpart. But the confidence was not the same. The man in his dream had engaged in a rather forceful seduction and the gypsy girl had responded with her own enthusiasm. How could he expect such a response--a woman eager to make love to a corpse! It was laughable.

No, the man in the dream was… normal. Of that he, at least, was certain. But there was more to it… the Erik in his dream was powerful and self-assured. He was…

He was like _him_. That blasted captain!

_Damn that man! Am I destined to be jealous of him even now? Even now that he is gone and Christine is under _my_ hand? _

_Ah, but that is what truly matters, doesn't it? _Erik smiled wickedly._ Christine is mine… I have her… she is under _my_ power. He may have all the pride and arrogance in the world, but _I_ have Christine. _

_But what does that matter if Christine constantly rejects you?_

_She will not reject me! She cannot! I am the master here and I will tolerate no more rejection._

Suddenly the image in his dream flickered through his mind. He groaned… he could actually _feel_ her moving beneath him!

Anger, frustration and lust battled past his reason and compassion, refusing to be ignored any longer.

_How dare she reject me,_ his mind thundered_, she belongs to me. I will not be denied. She is MINE!_

Erik could sense his obsessive madness closing in on him. It had happened before, even as a boy in regards to his studies. He could recognize it and yet was powerless to stop it. He could feel it almost as tangibly as a blanket being thrown over him, clouding his judgment and suffocating his control.

The masked phantom sprang from his bed. He had the only key that could open any door in Notre Dame and he snatched it up and fled down the hall towards the gypsy's cell. If anyone had been in the corridor at that time of night, they surely would have died at the sight of a demon tearing through the passageway, half-naked and fiery eyed.

The Goblin Monk was on the move.

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Hope I didn't write this chapter too soon... I have my reasons, though, and all will be made clear in time. Review, please! 


	22. Delirium

_Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera, nor do I own The Hunchback of Notre Dame._

A/N: This chapter is disturbing and was difficult to write. There's a reason this story is rated M. If it helps, try not to dwell on the fact that Erik gets more unlovable with each chapter and think of this as more of a turning point for the character and the story as a whole. Thank you.

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Christine was sleeping fitfully. Her strange friend--that unseen voice--had not come to visit her today. Over the last couple of weeks, she had really come to rely on him for companionship. Their daily conversations were a welcome respite from her solitary existence. 

Even when he was not with her, the voice had arranged to keep her entertained. The day after their first encounter, a couple of lay monks came to her room to deliver a heavy book and a psaltry--a small harp, of sorts.

Later that evening, the voice explained that the harp was for her own amusement, while the book was for his.

"What do you mean?" she'd asked.

"Open it up," he urged, smirking from behind the wall. The archdeacon was quite pleased with himself for having acquired such a book. Lesson books for beginning readers were almost impossible to come by. Those children who were fortunate enough to be educated usually had tutors who would teach them their letters by demonstration. Erik had acquired this book long ago, merely because of its rarity, to add to his collection.

Christine gingerly opened the cover and gasped at the gorgeous detail inside. Each page contained only a few letters, which were ornately decorated in gold and rich colors.

"You are going to learn to read," the voice declared.

Christine was both puzzled and intrigued. She had never learned to read and never had any particular desire to learn. Actually, the thought had never even occurred to her. When she thought about it, she realized that Pierre was the first and only person she knew who could read.

She explained all of this to the voice, not refusing but questioning the practicality of such a skill.

Her friend let out a long-suffering sort of sigh and explained that, while the world may never appreciate the need to education its women, he longed for a companion with whom he could hold an intellectual conversation. Inwardly, Erik knew that he would probably never be able to speak to her at the high level of some of his colleagues, but he was delighted at the prospect of teaching her and giving her some of his knowledge.

Christine was silent for a time, absorbing his explanation. Then she asked about the psaltry, plucking a few strings in experimentation.

"That is for you to play, my dear. I surely do not expect you to study your letters every hour of the day. Since I know how you enjoy music, I have provided you with an instrument to experiment with."

"Do you expect me to teach myself to play it?" she asked.

"Only if that is your wish. As I said, it is purely for your amusement."

Christine was amused. She rewarded Erik with her first genuine smile in a long time. Looking through a fissure in the door, the lonely priest thought his heart would burst with happiness.

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Christine had spent the following days alternating between her letters and her music. With so much time on her hands, Christine actually found herself making remarkable progress on both projects. She had even figured out how to pluck out simple tunes on her new instrument.

Each day the voice asked her about her progress and he helped her with her reading.

"How are you this evening?" he asked one day.

"I am fine, sir." she responded brightly. Each day she was feeling stronger and less disheartened.

"I have learned something on my instrument." she said proudly, "May I play it for you?"

The voice chuckled with an affectionate sort of amusement. "Such a child you are! Of course… I would love to hear it."

When he saw her get that far away look in her eye as she concentrated on her music, Erik knew he had made a grave error.

When she began to sing… that angel's voice accompanied by the harp… he thought he might die. His heart quickened and he panted, suddenly unable to gulp in enough oxygen. The rest of his body reacted as well and his mind berated him for it.

When she finished her song, she was disappointed at the extended silence that followed.

"Did you not like it?" she asked, slightly hurt.

"Lovely… Christine…" the voice rasped rather harshly. "I must go now."

"When will I see you again?" she asked.

But he was already gone.

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Erik spent that night awake in his chambers praying and, when that failed, punishing himself with a leather strap for his weakness.

This is how he survived that first night. The next day he avoided Christine entirely, only to find that thoughts of her only intensified in her absence.

If he had been a stronger man… if his body had been immune to the need for sleep, perhaps he could have kept his control. Being but a mere mortal, the poor priest worked himself into such a state of exhaustion that he collapsed in his cell, succumbing to a night of twisted fantasies and alarmingly vivid dreams.

Oh those dreams! Those dreams that left him writhing and panting on the floor of his cell. They are responsible for invoking the madness that drove the desperate man to the gypsies chambers that night.

Silent as a wraith, the shadow glided into the young girl's room. Her back was facing him and she was shivering. He could tell by looking at her that she was sleeping uneasily. Though she appeared to be chilled, she was not covered by her blanket as one would expect. Instead, it was bunched up under her chin and she was cuddling it tightly to her.

A small part of Erik's mind--the part not currently overcome by obsession and lust--felt a twinge of concern. What was so distressing to the girl that she sought comfort over the physical necessity of warmth?

Still, his curiosity and concern would not deter the strange and compulsory need that had driven him here tonight.

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Cold. So very cold.

Christine opened her eyes to find herself standing, once again, in an abyss of nothingness.

Darkness. Nothing but cold and darkness and despair.

It was that dream again. Somehow Christine's consciousness was aware that she was dreaming, and yet she was unable to wake. Somehow, her fear kept her in her place.

Cold. Dark. Hopeless.

She was trapped again, unable to move or even cry. Of the many nightmares she faced, real or otherwise, this was always the worst.

Suddenly she was met with a sensation of heat pressed against her back. The relief was sudden and relaxed her muscles just enough that she could lean back and attempt to soak up more of it.

"warm…" she murmured in her sleep, pressing back against the priest, who had slipped into bed beside her.

In her dream, burning coals were placed one by one up her neck. Her mind half-way registered that the coals were scorching her skin. But it was a good burn, she argued_. Perhaps because of the cold_… Presently she stopped thinking and gave into the sensation, tilting her head back to expose more skin. She moaned, thankful to have some feeling rise from the nothingness.

The form pressed against her harder and the movements became more fervent. Suddenly she was stung with a feeling of frost sliding up her body. It was a shock, like jumping into an icy lake, and it woke her abruptly.

She gasped to wake and realize that the icy sensation was coming from a hand, creeping slowly from her hip to her belly, finally resting hard against her breast.

The grogginess of sleep was shed instantly and she sat up in her bed, only to be tugged down again by the invader.

She twisted and turned, trying to see in the darkness the monster who had captured her, but he was too strong. His arms were now wrapped firmly around her waist as he continued to place those burning kisses up her shoulder.

"Love me!" he growled, pulling at the top of her gown for more access to that silken neck.

"Get away from me!" she shrieked, "Monster! Vampire! Someone help me!"

"Mercy! Please, girl! You have no idea what you do to me."

As the phantom went about caressing her body, he neglected to keep hold of her hands, which Christine took advantage of in earnest.

"Release me!" she yelled, pounding at his arms and chest with her angry fists. "Release me or I'll denounce you, you heartless beast! Curse you, monster!" She beat at him with the fury of a child and the ferocity of an enraged tiger.

"Yes, that's it," he breathed, taking hold of her wrists and using them to draw her even closer to him. "Curse me, hit me… I am yours to do as you will. But first… first love me. My beauty… you have no idea what your squirming does to me."

Erik's mind was working frantically as he struggled to remain gentle while he forced the girl into submission. _Christine! Why won't you love me? _He used his knee to part her legs, careful not to bruise that flawless skin._ Can't you see how much I love you?_ She struck him again and he responded with more caresses. He honestly could not understand. Why was she still fighting him? He wasn't raping her… he wasn't trying to hurt her, he was only trying to show her how much he loved her! She wouldn't believe him when he professed his devotion… but this way she would have to understand! He had to make her love him back.

Christine, made stronger in her fear and anger, was still no match for the cloaked skeleton above her. One hand pinned her wrists above her head and the other wandered down her thigh to pull up the hem of her skirt. The struggling girl became more hysterical as she felt herself being overpowered.

"Don't you understand, girl?" he cried, this time at his full voice, "There must be an end to this!"

Suddenly she froze. She knew that voice. At first, when he hissed and whispered his harsh words to her, she could hear the similarities. But now, as she mentally removed the angry grate and severe undertones, she understood. The same voice that had lulled her to sleep and kept her company and taught her things belonged to the bony creature before her. That skeleton with fierce, glowing eyes behind an intimidating mask which covered an even more terrifying face.

Christine's eyes grew wide with realization. Her angel and her nightmare were one. She understood everything now and, even in her fear, she was heartbroken.

She wept miserably. "No… it cannot be so. Why? Why must it be this way? How can you both be the same… Help me! Someone, please!"

Erik found his frustration building when Christine's shrieks gave way to pitiful, noisy sobs. _No no no! Don't cry Christine! Please don't cry…_

"Silence!" he hissed, though it was more of a plea than a command.

Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut, looked up at him now. "Please, angel…" she whispered, "don't make it hurt…"

Something about those heartbroken words, brought the impassioned man back to reality. He almost felt as if he was out of his body, watching the scene unfold. There he was, covering the frightened gypsy's small body with his own. Her hair was splayed out beneath her and her lips were parted. They were both panting… but this was so much different than the dream. Her eyes, which met his sorrowfully, were not glazed with desire. Rather, they were glittering with tears that had overflowed, leaving tracks and stains over her pale cheeks.

"What have I done?" he choked, feeling his head spin. The gypsy let out another whimper and he leapt off of her as if burned. He backed away unsteadily.

"Forgive me!" he gasped, unable to meet her furious gaze. He stumbled against the wall in a drunken manner, trying to find the exit in his shock.

Christine struggled to her feet, screaming in rage, cursing obscenities and threats. She did not approach him however; though she would have liked nothing more to beat him to a bloody pulp, she had had enough of his nearness for a long time.

"GET OUT! GET OUT!" she shrieked, throwing anything and everything she could get her hands on at the trembling would-be attacker. Her harp splintered against the door frame as she heaved it with all her might. The book lay tattered and forgotten on the floor.

As soon as he grasped the door handle, he disappeared as quickly and quietly as he had come. She ran to the door, rattling the handle in hopes that he had left it open and she could escape, but it was already locked. Exhausted and frightened, Christine sank to the ground with her back against the door. She began to sob once again, so loudly that she was oblivious to all sound beyond her own weeping.

Unbeknownst to her, her enemy had done the same on the other side of the door. He buried his head in his hands, trying to catch his breath as he heard her crying. After a moment, he too began to weep, cursing himself and contemplating the worst sort of self-punishment. The two remained in this way for hours, one wallowing in self-pity, the other in self-loathing.

It was Erik who rose first. A new day was beginning and he sensed the first rays of light trickling in through the windows. There, looking out into the vast sunrise above all of Paris, he made a vow.

"I will make this right." he pledged, "I am and forever will be unworthy of love… but I will do everything in my power to bring her safety and happiness. This is my penance and my joy… that I should be but a dog at her feet, ready to die for her."

With a set jaw and steady gate, the archdeacon made his way to his room to dress. Gone was the veil of madness that had shadowed his eyes for so many months, and he saw clearly for the first time.

Today was a new day marked with new purpose and determination. He would start by paying a visit to an old friend.


	23. A new day and an old friend

_Disclaimer: I own neither Phantom of the Opera, nor Hunchback of Notre Dame._

**Note: Hi guys... sorry it's been a while. Thanks for hanging in there. I could give excuses, but nobody likes to hear those anyway... so, right, on with the story. Oh yea, after last chapter I hope none of you are expecting Erik to turn into some sort of kitten. He's still as dark as ever... his motivations have just been redirected, that's all. Hope that's alright with you. Enjoy!**

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Erik's body was exhausted--it would seem the months of sleepless nights had caught up with him--but the chill of the morning air kept him quick and alert as he stealthily moved about the shadows cast by the still rising sun. It surely wouldn't do for him to be caught about the streets. The rumors about his supposed sorcery--not to mention his ghastly face, which was said to have been cursed by the devil himself because of the evil of his heart (though, nobody could definitively attest to such as those who had seen him had mysteriously disappeared)--had so ingrained themselves into the community that he thought it unwise to risk running into one of the many groups of superstitious merchants already beginning to pepper the streets with their wares. Of course, the consequences for such hostility would be dire, but he'd rather not take chances. Not today.

Even as his body screamed in fatigue, his mind remained as active and as troubled as ever. What had happened last night? He hadn't meant to hurt her… but why hadn't she responded as he had in his dream? For once, he could not blame his face… it was pitch black in the room and he wore his mask the whole time. He knew his eyes had the unsettling tendency to only show themselves in the darkness, but he had carefully hidden them from her, so as not to frighten her with yet another of this disturbing physical characteristics.

Perhaps that was the problem… she didn't recognize him as the one who loved her so powerfully. For a moment, he was heartened; if she had known it was him, instead of some midnight attacker, perhaps she would have responded differently.

Then, however, he recalled the painful moment when he saw the realization in her eyes… the recognition and despair in which she stopped her struggles and softly pleaded for him not to hurt her. She had called him angel…

What did gypsies know of angels, anyway?

Erik moaned and clawed at his chest over his heart, a gesture he seemed to have picked up recently. Briefly, he leaned against the side of a building and attempted to steady his racing heartbeat. She _had _recognized him. She recognized him and yet she still rejected him!

The pain was overwhelming, but it did not give in to the veil of obsessive madness that had only recently lifted. Instead, he looked upon his situation with a sense abject depression and misery.

And yet, through it all, he felt the existence of hope. However small it was, it was ever present and comforting.

He smiled as he remembered the way her body pressed into his, how she moaned and leaned into his kisses before she awoke from her slumber. It seemed part of her enjoyed his advances. Perhaps she had not meant her vehement rejection as much as she thought she did. Yes, he realized with a sense of triumph, she did love him. Somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind, she did love him. She just could not see it yet.

It seemed, therefore, that he was going about this all the wrong way. Until now, he was consumed with the idea of having her, of possessing her body and spirit in every way imaginable. He had to admit now, though, that he hadn't given much thought to what would come after that. Once she was in his possession, what would he do with her? Besides the obvious of course…

No, his previous plan left him forcing her once into his clutches, which would ultimately leave her as broken as he was in the end… and he found he no longer wished such a thing on her. Now, though, with the newly gained control over his own faculties, he had the opportunity to have her forever.

Ah, to have her forever--a wife, of sorts--would be a dream beyond which only his subconscious had ever dared to comprehend.

Naturally, he could not keep her in Notre Dame forever. No, they would have to move far away. Oh but he knew just the place!

Though he was feared and admired as one of the city's most outspoken opponents of sorcery, having denounced more than his fair share of officials and socially elite of the unholy crime, he was also secretly respected by the same community for his skills in alchemy and other schools of questionable repute. Frequently he was approached by high and low members of the king's officials and aristocracy to instruct them in the ways of science for their own personal gain.

What Erik did in the name of scholarship, these men did for wealth. Some evenings Erik would sit by his window and muse about the irony of the world. It truly did seem one giant contradiction, didn't it? A man's desire for wealth and power overrode his fear of condemnation and drove him to seek out the very man the working class feared as the Devil Himself.

But they did seek him out, and every time he would council them, and every time they paid handsomely for the service. Erik demanded payment, not because he cared for money, but because he wanted to remind those he instructed that it was he who held the power in these arrangements. He was not about to be manipulated by some idiot of the lower court.

But then there arose the fact that he, truly, cared naught for money. It simply would not do to be a wealthy priest. He could not give it away, either, for it might look suspicious for a monk of his standing to possess such riches that he could give it away in great quantities. It would raise the question of where he came about the money--as he could not have come across it honestly in his occupation, it would stand to reason that he had come across it in some secretive or dishonest endeavor.

He could not afford such suspicions.

Though there had been rumors about him, even since his birth (if you can accept that such a creature was actually born of conventional means, which many doubted), no man had ever presented any hard evidence that could condemn him.

Erik intended to keep it that way.

At any rate, as Erik was at a loss as to how to dispose of this income, he decided to purchase a house in the country, several days journey from Paris. He rarely visited the dwelling, but hired an elderly couple to maintain it during his absence.

But now it would serve as the perfect home for his bride. His promises that night in the dungeon were not empty… he would take her there and they would live together in absolute happiness, caring only for each other.

If only she could realize how much she loved him.

Presently he reached his destination--a little home deep within he heart of the gypsy community. Oddly enough, most people here had no qualms against him and he was free to move about unhindered. These gypsies seemed somewhat less suspicious than the rest of the world--probably because most of them were witches themselves, he reasoned, and more likely to accept the grotesque and unnatural.

The flat was ever so familiar, as he had spent more than a few nights lurking outside that very place. He suspected this may be the only time he had cause to knock on the door like everybody else, but Erik opted against it. Better to keep one's opponent on edge when attempting to extract something he may not wish to part with.

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Pierre rolled over in bed, trying to ignore Amica's gentle nudging.

"Peace, my sweet," he whined, "it is too early to play."

When the cat kept up her mewing and running her head under his chin, Pierre threw a pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep.

"Yeeeow!" he cried, shooting awake as Amica sank her claws into his back. He woke up abruptly and glared at his dearest friend. For a second, he could have sworn she looked almost smug. However the black cat immediately went back to her mission, pacing about and bristling as if disturbed by something.

"Amica, can't it wait?" Pierre moaned, slowly getting up out of the bed to see what had her so upset.

Suddenly a cold voice spoke behind him. "You should listen to her, my friend. Animals have a certain… instinct… about such things."

Pierre whipped around, putting his hand to his chest in a rather feminine gesture of shock.

"Master Erik!" he cried, "It is only you! Heavens, you could have killed me you know. I heard from a very reliable source that it is unhealthy to startle a man before breakfast."

"Indeed," he responded dryly, "As fascinating as that anecdote promises to be, I'm afraid we have rather pressing business at the moment."

"And how is that?"

"Well, it seems as if you have something that I require."

"You know me, master. I'm always willing to help a friend in need. And yet, I can't help but wonder what you could require of poor old Pierre… why, I am wearing my only tunic and my jacket is so thin I can see through it in places. What could a great man such as yourself want from poor old me… that is, unless you want for me to write you a poem. Ooh! If that be the case--"

"No!" Erik interrupted, though the objection was all but ignored by the philosopher.

"Oh yes, a poem would be lovely… or a sonnet perhaps, though I don't expect you would have much use for one of those--"

"Pierre--"

"Perhaps you would be more interested in a play. Oh, me! It has been so long since I have written anything of worth. Hmm, now what to write, what to write? It must have a good moral… something deep and philosophical yet simple enough for the average man to--"

"Stop your jabbering, idiot, or I shall silence you myself. Honestly, I don't know why Trouillefou puts up with you."

"What you mean Stevo? Well, it's obvious that he truly appreciates--"

"Give me the cat, Pierre."

"Amica? Whatever would you want with my cat?"

"It belongs to the gypsy dancer."

"_She_ belonged to my wife… and as my wife is dead, she belongs to me. Don't you, my dearest? Yes, you want to stay with your darling Pierre, don't you?" he murmured to the cat, whom he was forcibly snuggling under his chin.

Erik growled at the word 'wife' coming from the silly little man, but restrained himself. If he intended to please Christine properly, he couldn't very well go about killing her friends… no matter how _irritating _they could be.

"The gypsy lives, and I will take the animal to her." he said shortly.

"My wife is alive?"

The archdeacon saw red as the poet uttered that word yet a second time. He swiftly cornered Pierre until the unhappy man was pressed against the door frame with an icy hand around his throat.

"She is _not_ your wife! Don't you think I know this 'marriage' was nothing but a farce?" he hissed, squeezing ever so slightly. "Christine does not belong to you, and you must not think of her this way any longer."

"Now now, Master Erik," Pierre gasped. "I did not mean to offend."

Though his face was red from the constriction, his temperament remained calm… as if he was used to such treatment. And, in fact, he was. "Such is the life of a philosopher…" he would often lament, "One must suffer the constant oppression of those who do not appreciate good art!"

This statement might have been true, in part, as most people were often more interested in him paying the rent than his grand orations… thus, the strangling.

At any rate, the Pierre continued to placate the angry man, clawing at the hand on his throat in the process.

"Erik, come on now! You're grip is unbearable. Surely you do not mean to kill me over such trivialities! There, there… I've apologized already, have I not?"

Still snarling, the dark monk loosened his grip and released the panting man completely.

"Give me the cat."

Pierre gasped anew, this time out of outrage. "Surely you do not mean to deprive me of both my loves!" he cried.

"I am taking it to Christine whether or not you approve."

"I _do _object! Erik, be reasonable!"

"I have been reasonable enough and I grow weary of this childish conversation. It is just a cat! Be a man for once."

"Just a cat!" he sputtered

"I was serious when I said I was finished with this conversation. We may be friends, but I will not hesitate to kill you now."

Pierre sighed. He truly was fond of the pretty little cat. But, in the end, he was even more fond of the idea of living another day.

"Well, there's nothing for it, I suppose. Goodbye Amica, my darling cat. Goodbye, my friend, my sweet, my…"

As he continued to coo over the hissing and clawing bundle, Erik rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Are you quite finished?"

The poet glared. How utterly oppressed he was! _Ah well_, he thought, _at least I know Christine will take good care of her._

Then a thought occurred. "Where is Christine anyway?"

Before leaving, Erik turned back and said simply, "She is safe, my friend, and that is all you must know for now. She is safe… and loved."

Then he shut the door, leaving Pierre to ponder his parting statement.

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Christine hadn't even realized she had fallen asleep until she woke up. She grimaced as she tried to sit up. Her neck hurt from sleeping in an awkward position on the stone floor against the doorframe and her hands and face were grimy from the dirt that clung to barely-dry tear tracks.

She wiped her face with her forearm and tried to remember what she was doing on the floor. Then it all came back to her…

The priest.

A strangled cry escaped her throat as she recalled the near-rape from the night before. Aside from the sheer horror of it all was the overwhelming sense of betrayal. This was the Voice… her friend, her connection to the outside, the one who sustained her mind and soul when all she felt was nothingness. He had been the only one, besides Father Mansart, who had shown her any kindness ever since she was apprehended by the police so many months ago. Though she still held fast to the belief that Raoul would find and rescue her, the Voice was the only real, authentic reminder that there was still hope. And this was the one who hurt her.

She shuddered at the memory of those unnaturally long fingers trailing up her arms and nearly retched when she remembered how she had actually _enjoyed_ his ministrations… at least at first. She had not known who it was at the time… but why should it matter? Was she so starved for human contact that she would actually _lean in_ to the caresses of such a man?

Christine was disgusted with herself and she frantically searched her body for bruises… scratches… _anything _to prove this wasn't just some horrible dream.

But, alas, she would find none. Erik had been infuriatingly gentle. Even as he pinned her arms and legs, he had taken care not to injure her. Though she fought and scratched him, he returned each blow with caresses… running icy fingers and dry lips over her skin and murmuring words of love all while she tried to strike and kill him.

_Not a mark… not a mark…_

Another twisted thought came to her as her mind wandered back to that horrible night in _la Falourdel's. _She had been scared then too… no, not terrified, but wary of the unknown. She loved Raoul, and thought she had been prepared to prove it, but when the time came, her naïve apprehension took over and tried to stop it. Surely, Raoul loved her and would not hold a ill will towards her for her fear. He would have waited.

But, she remembered with horror and confusion that which she had forgotten up until this moment. Those last words before the dark spectre had plunged that knife into his neck.

_Too late, love…_

Almost violently, she tried to wipe the thought from her mind. She must have imagined it. Raoul wouldn't have hurt her… especially not like that. He loved her. These sick thoughts were poisoning all the tender memories of the man she adored. Yes, that's it. This, too, was the fault of that horrible phantom. She went back to her manic search.

_Not a mark… not a mark. Then why does it hurt?_

In absolute frustration, Christine screamed. The release felt good and so she did it again. She raged and shrieked until she had no voice left and stood heaving against the wall. Then she slid down and put her forehead to her knees.

"Raoul…" she wept, "Raoul, why haven't you come for me?" In her mind, she also cried out, _Why, angel? Why did it have to be you? _

At some point during all of this, she heard a faint knock at her door. She debated the prudence of opening it, especially after all that had happened. It did occur to her, however, that if it had been Erik, he wouldn't have needed to bother knocking. He certainly hadn't last time, anyway. Curious, she opened the door just a bit and looked cautiously into the hall.

It was empty.

Confused and slightly disappointed, she pulled the door shut again. When she turned around, though, she saw a basket on her chair that had not been their previously.

With a little feminine cry of surprise, she approached the basket and opened the lid. As soon as it opened a crack, out sprang a disgruntled black cat with a purple bow around its neck.

"Amica!" Christine cried, joyfully. Now this was a friendly face she would never tire of.

The cat looked slightly happier to see her mistress, but otherwise paid her little heed as she irritably tugged at the bow, trying to free herself.

Christine laughed and crouched before the feline, gently untying the bothersome ribbon and letting the animal free. It was then that she saw that, attached to the ribbon, was a slip of yellow parchment. She squinted and examined it. It was covered in the spidery black markings she knew to be words. She could not, however, make out what they said. Suddenly she regretted not concentration harder on that letter-book the Vo---Erik had given her. The memory suddenly left a bitter taste in her mouth and so she folded the paper away. She would have to ask Mansart about it later.

* * *


End file.
